My sick days pass quietly, almost uneventfully. Mum doesn’t rant as much as I expected, but she still tosses in a few lectures on the same old topics here and there.

“You should be more careful with things. Take responsibility, Scarlett. I can’t always keep an eye on you. You need to look after yourself. Are you even eating? Why do I work this hard when you look like a skeleton?”

I weigh over 100 pounds and look perfectly healthy for my tall frame and my age, yet to her, I’m still too skinny. Are all mums like that? I wonder.

She’s been working long shifts almost every day, which leaves me with plenty of time alone. Still, she cooks my favourite meals before leaving for work. I’ve fallen into a quiet routine of being at home, savouring her food and catching up on Netflix shows I’ve been meaning to watch for months.

I’m not ready to face anyone at school yet, so I decide to extend my leave by another two days. After two full days of rest, I feel recharged enough to push myself. I spend the morning studying and working on my project, so absorbed that I don’t notice the time until Mum tells me to take a break. Even then, I keep going late into the evening.

At 9.20 pm, Mum comes downstairs in her scrubs, and I’m in the kitchen devouring the lasagna she made earlier. Her lasagna is my ultimate weakness – I’ll happily eat it for every meal until the last bite is gone.

She sits across from me, sipping her coffee. “Are you feeling better?” she asks softly.

“I’m okay,” I say. “The blisters are gone, and the swelling’s gone down.”

She glances at my arms and nods. “You can go to school tomorrow, if you’d like.”

I shake my head. “I’m in no rush. I want another day or two.”

She studies me for a moment, then says, “That’s okay, dear.” She holds my gaze, then asks, “You don’t have a boyfriend?”

My chest tightens. “Why?”

“You’ve been home for three days,” she says, her eyes steady on mine. “I haven’t seen anyone…, not even friends. Do you even have any friends at school?”

Her words cut deep because they’re true – a truth I’d rather avoid. Julie might be my friend, but only outside of school. I’ve always wished for at least one close friend, yet I haven’t found anyone since we moved here.

“Julie is my friend,” I say, almost defensively.

“And she hasn’t come by, even though she lives close,” Mum points out.

“She must be busy,” I answer, though I know that’s not the whole truth. I texted her yesterday about school, but she barely replied. The only thing she asked was if I was still talking to Oliver. When I said no, the conversation ended.

Mum looks away, her voice low. “Why, Scarlett? Not even Julie comes?”

“She’s busy,” I repeat, forcing the word out.

Her frown deepens. “And no one’s called either?”

“I don’t have many friends,” I admit.

Her face tightens with worry. “What about Ben? Where is he now?” The last time she asked so many questions like these, I lied about a boyfriend who doesn’t exist. Ben is a made-up name, an excuse I now need to bury.

“He moved to a different school,” I lie again. “I don’t see him anymore.”

“And you didn’t find anyone else?”

“I don’t want to. I’m focusing on my studies.”

“That’s good.” Her voice softens, but I can tell she is still worried. “But don’t be completely lonely, like me. You need friends. At least a few. And one day, your own family. It’s hard having no one.” Tears glisten in her eyes, but she blinks them away. She sets her cup on the table, grabs her bag, and straightens her shoulders. “Time to go,” she says.

Outside, a storm brews. The sky darkens as rain patters against the windows. She pauses at the door. “Close it,” she says.

“I will,” I reply.

“Now,” she insists, waiting until I shut it behind her before stepping out into the dark.

I finish my dinner slowly, cue up a song on my phone, and wash the last dish. As I place it in the rack, the doorbell rings. Mum, I think. She must have forgotten something – like she always does. I glance at the clock – 9.40 pm. She’s running late.

I hurry to the door.

Outside, the rain lashes down, and a gust of wind splashes drops across my face as the door opens. Oliver stands there, drenched from head to toe. Water drips from his hair and trails down his face. His eyes are intense in the dim porch light. His thin black shirt is plastered to his frame, clinging to every contour.

Before I can even process what’s happening, he steps forward, pulls me close, and kisses me softly.