I stand on the landing and think of all the times there was a locked door between us. He knows I’m here, but he doesn’t turn around, and I don’t speak. Instead, I watch him and hope he’s okay. No one in this house is happy—okay is the best we can hope for.

Once I asked Logan why he keeps his window open even when it’s cold. He looked at me for a long time, and I saw so many things flash behind his eyes. Then, finally, he said, “It helps.”

Later he sits between Mum and Dad on the sofa, and, if you were watching, you’d think they were normal, but they’re not.

My mother is the closest to happy. She got what she wanted even if she knows it’s a lie. But Dad’s and Logan’s smiles are fake. My make-believe brother got lost in the game, and my father has been scared into submission.

That leaves me, watching and wondering how it all got so monumentally fucked. I still dream about Will, and, sometimes, he’s laughing, but mostly he’s dead. His wet, lifeless body weighs me down, and I can’t push him off. The more I try, the heavier he feels until, eventually, with all I have, I force him off with a scream that must wake the whole house.

No one comes to me to ask if I’m all right. The locks have gone, but we all stay in our own rooms and silently wait for morning.

I write a note to my brother every single night and tuck it under my pillow and, the next day, I fold it twice and put it in a box under my bed. They all say the same thing with different words, which is that I miss him and I hate this and I’m sorry.

If Mum ever found them, she’d flip because it’s evidence. It’s saying out loud what we wrap up in layers of silence and tuck in the furthest corners of our minds. But she won’t find it because she doesn’t come in here. She doesn’t tidy my room or sit on my bed or tuck me in like she used to. Sometimes she stands by the door, but that’s it.

After what happened to Dad, I’m not brave enough to see what she’d do to me. That’s why I speak to Will through pen strokes and doodles. And it’s why I hope that, unlike the tooth fairy, he sees what I write in the notes I sleep on.

IIII IIII IIII IIII IIII IIII IIII III

Logan doesn’t whisper through the wall anymore. We communicate in a different way, now, but only when it’s safe, which means when Mum is out and Dad isn’t listening.