And I’m miserable.

I miss his kisses, I miss his kindness, I miss his laugh, all he sees when he looks at me is blood, and I don’t blame him, but I can’t go back. How does he not see that? How does he not see my own trauma and how I can’t go back?

I take three deep breaths and go into the lunchroom; as always, everyone looks away while I take my tray to one of the empty tables. They know I sit by myself and do homework or listen to a random podcast but really, it’s just because I’m exhausted trying to be perfect all the time at school, at the house I’m afraid to eat in front of everyone. I’m the interloper, the person everyone blames, and even doing all the things I do at school is only so that I’m not at the house as often. So I don’t see his door or watch him walk in and out and sneer at me… the memories cut deep. It was a short moment or amount of time, but it fed years of loneliness.

And now I’m back at square one.

On a happy note, I’ve figured out a way to keep my hands from shaking while I carry the white tray. You see, I clench it so tight that it keeps it stable. It’s the same thing I do with my teeth. I clench them until my jaw hurts, then I take a step every two seconds.

It works.

I appear confident.

Cool.

Ready for anything.

I even time the way I eat.

For example, if I have carrots, I chew at least ten times before calmly swallowing and taking a drink of water. If we have something messy, I use a fork and count to three, even though I’m starving, to cut another bite. If they have milk, I attempt to keep myself from putting an extra in my bag just in case I get kicked out.

I’m ashamed to say that I’ve done that a few times; I even saved my carrots once when I was scared Ambrose’s mom would kick me out. I had no money, and I was worried about food since I had already turned eighteen.

Thankfully, even though I never see her, there’s always food at the house, then there’s Ambrose, with his perfect friends, always leering behind me, ready to kick me when I’m down.

I know he’s angry.

But he has no idea.

He has no clue I’m doing what’s best for him.

And I’ll take it to my grave.

Because regardless of what I’m going through, it’s the right thing to do, and I can’t go past that, there are a lot of lines I’ve obviously crossed, but this is one that needs to stay firm.

For him.

I mean, maybe, I won’t have the perfect life, maybe I’ll end up dead—he has the best chance at doing something great, and I believe in him, so I’ll take the hits again and again.