Cracks in the ice

The house had never felt this quiet before.

It was a suffocating kind of quiet—not peaceful, not serene, but the heavy silence of a place where no one dared speak unless it was to wound. Each morning, I woke to the faint hum of life downstairs: my mother clattering dishes in the kitchen, my father’s low murmur as he read through emails, and Ethan’s sneakers squeaking on the hardwood as he left for school. But no one ever called for me. No one ever asked how I was feeling or if I even wanted to join them.

Not that I would have.

My body still ached, but the physical pain was nothing compared to the strange hollowness that had settled into my chest.

On my first morning home, I’d come down the stairs, hopeful in spite of myself. Maybe they’d softened. Maybe after seeing me lying unconscious in that hospital bed, after hearing the doctors say "broken ribs," "fractured arm," and "burns," they’d realize something about me—about all the ways they’d failed me.

But no.

My mother sat at the table with her coffee cup clutched tight between her manicured fingers, her eyes fixed on some point far beyond me. My father didn’t even glance up from his phone. Ethan looked, at least, but only for a second before his gaze skittered away again, his jaw tightening like it always did when he didn’t want to deal with something.

“Morning,” I said, my voice breaking the silence like a pebble tossed into still water.

No one answered right away.

My mother’s lips pressed into a thin line as she finally looked up, her expression carefully blank. “You look pale,” she said coolly. “You should eat something.”

It was the only thing she said to me that morning.

And later that afternoon, as I sat curled up on the edge of the couch, she walked past and muttered under her breath, “We didn’t raise a girl like this. You could at least try not to look so… pitiful.”

It struck me like a slap, but I said nothing.

What was there to say?

The days stretched on in much the same way—quiet meals punctuated by passive-aggressive comments, long hours spent alone in my room staring at the ceiling, counting the seconds until it was late enough to sleep without seeming weak.

Ethan still couldn’t meet my eyes.

But there were moments—tiny, fleeting moments—where his mask cracked.

One evening, I caught him standing outside my bedroom door, his hand raised as though he meant to knock. I watched through the crack as he hesitated there, his shoulders tense, his mouth working like he wanted to say something. But after a few seconds, he dropped his hand and walked away.

It left me more confused than angry.

Because for the first time, I wondered if he felt guilty.

If maybe he had started to see just how much of me he’d ignored all these years.

But he still didn’t speak.

And so the silence between us grew heavier, thicker, until it filled every corner of the house.

Lucas texted me late one night, when the loneliness felt like it was eating me alive.

Hey, are you awake?

I stared at the screen for a moment before replying. Yeah. barely.

His next message came almost immediately. Are you okay?

That simple question undid me.

I pressed the phone to my chest and let the tears fall silently for a few minutes before answering. Not really. But thanks for asking.

We texted for hours after that, even though I didn’t tell him much and he didn’t press. He just kept me company, sending me stupid memes, complaining about homework, and reminding me that I wasn’t completely alone.

And that mattered more than I could ever say.

I fell asleep with the phone in my hand that night, feeling just a little less hollow.

But no matter how hard I tried not to, my thoughts always drifted back to Jaxon.

Sometimes, late at night when the house was quiet and everyone else was asleep, I’d close my eyes and remember the way his hands had felt against my skin—firm but gentle, his thumb brushing glass from my palm as though I were made of something fragile.

The way he’d looked at me before he kissed me.

That kiss…

It haunted me.

Even now, the memory of it made my chest tighten and my breath catch, heat rising to my cheeks. The way his fingers tangled in my hair, the way his body pressed me back against the counter, solid and unyielding and warm…

And yet, I didn’t know what any of it meant.

Because the next time I saw him, he’d been with Savannah.

And yet again, when he saved me at the pool, there had been nothing but fury and panic in his voice.

I didn’t understand him.

But I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

That thought alone scared me more than anything else.

On the sixth day back home, I finally worked up the nerve to leave my room and sit out on the back porch. The air was cool and crisp, and for the first time in days, I could breathe without feeling like the walls were closing in.

I pulled my knees up to my chest and rested my chin on them, staring at the stars peeking out above the tree line.

I didn’t hear the sliding door open behind me until Ethan stepped out, his footsteps slow and hesitant.

For a long moment, he just stood there, watching me in silence. Then he finally spoke, his voice low.

“You’re… healing up okay?”

I didn’t turn around. “Physically, yeah.”

He shifted uncomfortably. “That’s… good.”

But he didn’t leave.

He lingered there, as though he wanted to say more, but whatever words he had died on his lips.

I almost wished he’d yell at me. That he’d say something.

But instead, he just stood there, silent and awkward, before finally retreating back inside.

I sat there alone for a long time after, watching the stars until the chill drove me back to my room.

That night, I dreamed of Jaxon again.

Of his hands, strong and sure, cradling my face like it was something precious.

Of his voice, low and rough in my ear, telling me I was beautiful.

Of the way his lips claimed mine, leaving me breathless and wanting more.

I woke before dawn, my heart racing, my skin hot and flushed.

I pressed my palm to my cheek, half expecting to still feel his touch there.

But of course, I was alone.

And as the first light of morning crept through my window, I buried myself back under the blankets, wishing I could silence the thoughts spinning in my mind.

Because no matter how much I told myself otherwise, the truth was unavoidable.

I wanted him.

I hated him, and I wanted him.

And I didn’t know how much longer I could keep pretending otherwise