Behind Her Pride

ZACH

People think being alone makes you tough.

It doesn’t. It just makes you hollow. Makes you echo. And I’ve been echoing my entire life.

I don’t remember my parents. Not really. Just pieces.

A laugh. A scream. A lullaby that never had an ending.

Everything else came from the system.

Group homes. Foster dads who drank too much. Foster moms who pretended I was furniture. Friends who lasted two weeks before we got reassigned.

You learn not to get attached when everything you love gets taken.

You learn to keep your bag half-packed. And you learn really fast that nobody’s coming to save you.

I’m nineteen now. Legally an adult. Technically free. But I’ve got no blood ties, no inheritance, no safety net.

What I do have?

A board. A beat-up pair of Vans. And a record that’s just clean enough to keep me out of jail but dirty enough to keep cops watching.

I work under the table for a mechanic named Mags who pays in cash and lets me crash in the garage when it rains.

When it doesn’t, I sleep wherever I can.

A train yard. The roof of a liquor store. Sometimes under the skatepark bleachers if I’m lucky. Most nights, I’m not.

Tonight, I’m posted up behind a liquor store off 9th Street, the buzz of neon flickering like a warning sign.

It’s cold. Too early in the season for it, but then again, the weather doesn’t care if you’ve got nowhere to be.

I’ve got my hoodie pulled low, backpack as a pillow, hoodie strings tangled in my fingers. And I’m staring at the stars like they owe me an explanation.

Why me?

Why the hell am I still here?

A car pulls up. Not a cop car. Not junk either. Something sleek. Low to the ground. Quiet. Too quiet for this part of town.

I don’t move, but my hand slides toward my pocket. I’ve got a blade. Not much, but enough to make someone think twice.

A door opens. A girl steps out.

She doesn’t see me at first.

She’s in heels. Not hooker heels, just… expensive. Dress like silk. Hair loose and light — dirty blonde, catching the streetlight like it’s trying to make her glow.

She walks into the store like she owns it.

Doesn’t even glance around.

Which means she’s either stupid… Or dangerous.

I sit up. Not sure why. Something about her feels off. Not in a bad way.

Just… unreal. Like she doesn’t belong here — and maybe that’s the point.

Five minutes later, she walks out with a brown paper bag and a candy bar. No receipt.

I catch a better look at her face as she walks back to her car.

Big blue eyes. Not cold, just unreadable.

Skin that isn’t pale but isn’t tan either. That smooth, sun-kissed kind of soft you only see in magazines.

She opens her door, hesitates. Looks my way. Sees me. Our eyes lock. And everything in my chest tightens.

She doesn’t scream. Doesn’t flinch. Just… watches me. Like she knows me. Like somehow, in some other world, we’ve done this before.

Then she smirks. The tiniest curl of her lip. And gets in the car. Drives off.

I’m left staring at the street like a punch just landed in my ribs.

What the hell was that?

I should forget her. People like that don’t remember people like me. But I already know I won’t.

Something about her feels like a glitch in the universe.

Like maybe… for a second… I wasn’t invisible.

I don’t sleep that night. Can’t. I keep thinking about the way she looked at me. Not scared. Not curious.

Just… knowing.

And it makes me wonder if maybe she’s hollow too. Maybe she echoes like I do.

And if that’s true? God help me.

Because I think I just saw the girl who’s gonna wreck whatever’s left of me.

The next morning, Mags has me unloading tires behind the shop. Sweat sticks to my shirt, my hands are coated in grease, and my muscles ache in that way I’ve come to like, because pain is better than numb.

“Payday’s Friday,” he grunts. “Don’t ask early.”

“Wasn’t gonna.”

He tosses me a water bottle anyway.

“You good, kid?”

I pause. Then nod. Because what else am I gonna say?

I saw a girl last night who looked like a fever dream and now I can’t stop thinking about the way her mouth curved like she knew how I’d die?

Yeah. No thanks.

After work, I head to the park. Board under one arm, smoke tucked behind my ear.

It’s quiet. Too early for the high school crowd, too late for the morning joggers.

Perfect.

I drop into the bowl and start to move - fast, sharp, all edges and instinct.

Skating’s the only place I feel weightless. Like I can outrun whatever’s chasing me. The noise in my head. The itch under my skin. The way I still wake up hoping someone’s gonna say, “Come home.”

But there’s no home. Just pavement. And pain.

I’m mid-air when I see her again. Leaning against the fence. Watching. Same eyes. Same smirk.

My heart trips.

I land hard. Roll out. Catch my balance. Walk toward her like I’m not about to come undone.

“Stalking me now?” I ask, voice low.

She shrugs. “You looked like you knew what you were doing.”

“I do.”

“That’s rare.”

I blink. “What’s rare?”

“Someone who knows anything.”

She walks closer. Stops just outside touching distance.

“You’re not from here,” I say.

She smiles. “Neither are you.”

And she’s right.

Because I don’t belong anywhere.

But something about her… It makes me want to.

We don’t trade names. We don’t ask questions.

We just sit on the concrete, share a cigarette, and talk about nothing.

But the space between us? It’s loud with something. I don’t know what. Not yet. But I’ll figure it out. Because I’ve never met someone who looks like a doll and talks like a ghost. And I need to know if she’s hollow too.

Because if she is?

Maybe we’re not so different.

Maybe we break the same.