Dad was drunk again.

He slammed the kitchen cabinet, his face flushed, his hands shaking as he lit another cigarette. “You’re falling apart,” he muttered. “Acting like some freak. People talk, you know.”

I didn’t say anything. I couldn’t. I just stared at my soggy cereal.

“You hear me, boy?” His voice was thick with alcohol.

“Yeah,” I answered, my voice hollow.

I grabbed my things and left before he could throw anything. My phone screen was cracked. My backpack had a hole in it. I didn’t care. I just needed to see Julian again.

I found him at the bus stop, sitting next to me. He looked smaller than before, like he’d been worn down by time or something. But he didn’t speak. He just rested his head on my shoulder. For a brief moment, I forgot everything.

I forgot the bruises on my arms.

At school, Mr. Hart stopped me after class. He looked at my arms, but I pulled my sleeves down before he could say anything.

“You okay?” he asked.

I almost told him about Julian, about everything—but I didn’t. Instead, I said, “Yeah. I’m fine.”

I wasn’t.

After class, I stayed behind, but not for help. I just wanted to sit.

Julian was outside the window, looking in. His form was blurry, fading at the edges. I ran outside, my heart pounding.

“Where are you going?” I asked, desperation creeping into my voice.

He didn’t answer.

He turned to look at me, his eyes full of sadness. “You don’t need me.”

“Yes, I do,” I whispered.

He smiled sadly. “No. You just think you do.”

And then, like a dream slipping away, he was gone.