When I get back home, the silence slams into me harder than expected. The place is empty, the kind of quiet that amplifies every thought bouncing around in my skull.

Being left alone with my thoughts?

Dangerous territory.

I feel that old, familiar itch start to creep up, the one that screams for a hit to numb it all, or maybe something stronger. I head straight for the kitchen, reaching for the whiskey on the top shelf—the one Mom thinks she's hidden.

Tonight, it's a booze over anything harder. The crystal bottle catches the kitchen light as I pull it down, and my reflection fragments across its surface—distorted, broken, fitting. Drinking solo has turned into one of my pathetic hobbies lately. No need to let anyone see how deep I've really sunk.

I'm about to pour when I spot the mess the boys left behind. Cans, bottles, wrappers—like they think a maid's going to materialize and clean up after them. I set the bottle down with a sigh that echoes in the empty kitchen.

"Fucking kids," I mutter to the silence.

Mom has got enough shit to deal with without coming home to this mess. I grab a trash bag and start cleaning up, my movements automatic yet cautious, thanks to my fractured hand. If I keep busy, maybe I won't have to think about all the other shit that's gone down recently.

Something catches my eye as I pass the living room.

Nora's makeshift workstation is a disaster, papers and notebooks everywhere, just like she always leaves it when she's lost in her writing. A ghost of a smile tugs at my lips—same old Nora. I'm not trying to snoop, but as I move past, my hip catches the table, sending everything flying.

"Shit," I curse, dropping to my knees to gather up the mess. That's when I see it—a thick application form lying on the floor.

In bold letters: McMillion and Sons UK - Writing Scholarship.

So she is writing again. The realization does something weird to my chest. I start reading before I realize what I'm doing. Seeing that application twists something inside me. Pride, because she's getting back to what she loves, what she's brilliant at. But then it hits me like a sucker punch—she's actually doing something with her talent, while I'm just here, wasting away.

I toss the papers back on the table when my phone buzzes—missed calls from Farrah, texts from the boys about the bonfire, a couple from Jay. I ignore them all. Tonight I just need the quiet, even if it's the last thing I want.

The cleaning distraction lasts all of twenty minutes. My fractured hand throbs—a steady reminder of recent mistakes. I need something more to clear my head, something other than booze or pills.