I lay on my bed staring at the ceiling, counting the tiny cracks I'd memorized without meaning to. They ran like thin veins through the paint, branching and looping in ways almost made patterns if I squinted long enough. I hadn't talked to Ava about what happened. Not yet. I figured Sha would eventually—Sha always did—but the waiting sat heavy in my chest, like something unfinished.
I rolled onto my left side, facing the wall.
Why didn't I want Ava to know?
It wasn't like anything bad would happen. Ava wouldn't yell. She wouldn't judge. She'd probably just listen, tilt her head the way she did when she was trying to understand something complicated, and say my name softly. Still, the thought of explaining it—of turning the mess in my head into words—made my stomach tighten.
I twisted onto my right side instead and looked out the window. The fall leaves were harder to see at night, their reds and oranges swallowed by the dark. The streetlight outside cast a dull amber glow, catching only the edges of branches as they swayed in the wind. Everything looked flatter at night, less real, like the world was holding its breath.
I groaned quietly and rolled back onto my back, eyes on the ceiling again.
My birthday was soon.
It always snuck up on me, like something I tried not to think about until it was already there. We never celebrated. At school, sometimes a teacher would notice the date on the attendance sheet, and everyone would be singing. Their voices never matched, never landed together. Someone always clapped too fast. Someone else dragged the tune out. They smiled while they sang, but it felt rehearsed—like a routine they'd learned and didn't question.
I'd smile back, because that was what you were supposed to do.
But it always felt fake. Hollow. Like they were performing something instead of meaning it.
I didn't know how to explain that feeling. Only when the song ended and everyone went back to their seats, the quiet afterward felt heavier than before.
I pushed myself up and slid off the bed, my feet touching the cold floor. My room was small—barely more than a square—but it was mine. A bed pressed into one corner, a closet with a door that stuck if you didn't pull it just right, a desk scarred with old scratches, and a chair that leaned back a little too far if you weren't careful. A few other things were scattered around—books stacked unevenly, clothes folded badly on a shelf—but nothing extra. Just the essentials.
I paced once, then twice, then stopped in front of my desk. The chair creaked as I sat and leaned back, balancing carefully so I wouldn't tip over like I had more than once before. I stared at the blank surface of the desk, at the single notebook lying there unopened.
I didn't know what to do with myself.
After a moment, I reached for a pencil. It felt strange in my hand, lighter than I expected. I'd never been good at drawing. Every time I tried, the lines never came out the way I wanted. My hands knew what they were doing when I glitched, when I moved fast, when I reacted—but asking them to make something quiet and deliberate always felt wrong.
Still. It couldn't hurt.
I pressed the pencil to the paper and held it there for a few seconds, frozen. My mind went blank. What did you draw when you didn't know what you were feeling?
I dropped the pencil, letting it roll slightly across the desk, then leaned back again. The chair wobbled, and I corrected myself quickly, exhaling through my nose.
Focus.
I sat properly and picked the pencil back up.
This time, I didn't think. I just let my hand move.
I drew a door first, slightly open, the angle wrong in a way that made it feel unstable. Then I added a small figure in front of it, curled up tight, their back pressed against the door like they were holding it shut with their body. I drew the lines rough, almost shaking, but I didn't erase them.
I added windows next—rectangles divided into fourths by thin lines. Outside them, I sketched vague shapes. Creatures. Monsters that didn't have clear forms, just impressions—too many limbs, eyes where they didn't belong. They crowded the space beyond the glass, pressing close without touching.
Finally, I drew a hand reaching through the door. Too long. Too dark. I filled it in completely, the pencil moving harder, faster, until the paper dulled beneath it. The hand wrapped around the figure's arm.
When I finished, I leaned back and looked at it.
It wasn't perfect. The proportions were off. The lines were messy.
But I smiled.
I flipped to the next page before I could overthink it.
This one came easier. I started with hind legs, then filled out the body, shading the belly lightly. I added front legs, then a long, fluffy tail, using the side of the pencil to darken it. I sketched the back, the neck, then the head—pointed ears, sharp but alert. The eyes were careful, watching, and intelligent.
A fox.
Nothing special, really. But I liked it.
I pulled out another sheet of paper.
This time, I hesitated.
I decided to draw my face.
I sketched an oval, adjusted it, then added my mouth. Ears. A nose. Eyebrows. Long black hair falling around my shoulders and beyond to my back. When I reached the eyes, I slowed down, trying to make them right. I drew the lids, the lashes, the shape beneath.
When I finished, I stared at it.
It was me.
Not perfect—but recognizable. Honest.
I flipped the page and started again, drawing my whole body this time. Then Sha to my left, Ava to my right. In front of us, I added the monster from the forest—the one we'd fought together. I softened its edges, made it less terrifying, like something already defeated.
I smiled quietly to myself. I traced one of the fox's ears with my thumb, careful not to smudge the graphite.
It wasn't perfect—but it felt like mine.
For once, I hadn't done anything wrong to make it exist.
The door slammed open.
I spun so fast my chair screeched, my body glitching as I scrambled to my feet.
Dad stood in the doorway.
He almost never came in here.
"What are you doing?" he asked.
"Nothing," I snapped, harsher than I meant to.
He ignored my tone and walked in, his eyes dropping to my desk. The drawings were still there, spread out where I'd left them—the fox, my friends, my face.
"Why do you care?" I asked.
He turned toward me.
I shrank instantly.
He grabbed my ear, his grip sharp, and I glitched violently, my heart slamming against my ribs as panic flooded my chest.
"You may be able to fool everyone else around here," he said, his voice low, tight, "but you can't fool me."
My breathing sped up.
Was I fooling everyone?
Was everything—my smiles, my friendships, my reactions—just something I'd learned to perform?
"Get away!" I wrenched myself free.
For a split second, he looked surprised.
Then angry.
The impact came fast. My head struck the desk, and I fell to the floor. I lay there on my back, staring upward, tears slipping silently down the sides of my face, blood dripping down the right side of my forehead, it seeped down my face spitting into two streams when it met my eye. I focused on the ceiling because focusing on anything else felt impossible. The room seemed distant, muffled, like I was underwater.
Dad stood there for a moment. He looked unsure. Awkward.
Then he left, closing the door behind him.
I didn't move.
Numbness spread through me, dulling everything. I took short, shallow breaths, my chest barely rising. I didn't scream. I didn't cry out.
There was no point.
I stared at the ceiling and questioned everything.
If I wanted to be here.
If I deserved this.
If I deserved love at all.
The door slammed open again.
I didn't look.
"Ray! What happened?"
Zane.
He was beside me instantly. I kept my gaze fixed upward, like I hadn't heard him. He panicked, his hands hovering, then he pressed two fingers lightly to my neck, checking my pulse. He froze, thinking, then stood abruptly and ran downstairs.
I heard raised voices. Sharp words. Then footsteps again.
Zane came back, slid his arms carefully under my back and knees, and lifted me. I didn't resist. I didn't help. I just let him carry me.
Outside, the air was cold—clean and sharp, but not unbearable. The kind of cold that makes you sleepy instead of tense. I closed my eyes for a moment.
"Hey, Ray," Zane said softly. "We're here."
I opened my eyes.
A hospital.
Dad stood near the front desk, talking to a woman. I looked away quickly when our eyes met. Zane stayed close as a doctor approached and guided us down a hallway. The room we entered glowed softly, crystals lining the walls in shades of gold, blue, and violet, casting strange overlapping colors.
"Are you her brother?" the doctor asked.
Zane nodded.
"Please step outside for a moment."
He hesitated, then obeyed.
The doctor examined me quietly, holding a yellow crystal near my eye, then the other. I watched it closely, pretending it mattered more than it did.
"What happened?" she asked.
"I fell," I said. "Hit my desk."
She didn't push, I couldn't imagine what he'd do if he found out I told.
She cleaned the wound and smiled slightly. "Looks like it healed on its own. Lucky—you're a mutant."
She tapped my horn gently, then opened the door. Zane was waiting. Dad stood behind him.
The walk home was silent.
I glitched through the door ahead of them and went straight to my room, closing it softly. I sat on my bed, knees pulled to my chest.
A knock came a minute later.
"You alright?" Zane asked.
"Yeah," I said quietly. "I'm fine."
He stepped inside anyway. His eyes caught on the desk—on the drawings, the faint mark where a drop had fallen. He picked them up, flipping through slowly.
"These are good," he said.
I smiled, small but real, he flipped the drawings around and saw the other drawings.
He paused on the first drawing—the door, the figure, the hand.
"What's this?" he asked.
I shrugged. "Just a drawing."
"What does it mean?"
I thought, then said, "I just thought it was a cool idea."
He nodded, though his eyes lingered. He picked up the other drawing—the drawing of me.
"Like it?" I asked.
"Yeah," he said. Then, gently he added, "But…why doesn't it have eyes?"
I froze.
"I don't know."
He didn't press. He set the paper down and sat beside me on the bed, pulling me into a hug. I hugged him back, burying my face against his shoulder.
"Love you," he said softly.
"Love you too."