Chapter 4

Ella

The house is quiet when I walk in.

It always is.

The door shuts behind me with a soft click, and the silence settles in immediately—heavy, familiar, suffocating in a way I’ve never quite gotten used to.

“Mom?” I call out anyway.

Nothing.

Of course.

I already knew she wouldn’t be home. She’s rarely home before dark. Work always comes first. It always has.

I drop my bag by the door and kick off my shoes, the small sounds echoing louder than they should in the empty space.

This is normal.

This is what my life looks like.

School where I try not to exist.

Home where it doesn’t matter if I do.

I walk into the kitchen on autopilot, pulling open the freezer and grabbing something random—another frozen meal, something easy, something that doesn’t require effort.

I don’t even know if I’m hungry.

I just… don’t know what else to do.

The microwave hums as I lean against the counter, staring at nothing.

And then—

It all comes back.

The hallway.

The laughter.

The spitballs.

Beckett’s voice.

The way everyone looked at me.

The way they always look at me.

I squeeze my eyes shut.

“Why do I let them do that to me?” I whisper.

The question feels louder than anything else in the room.

Because I don’t have an answer.

I never have.

Why do I always walk away?

Why do I always stay quiet?

Why do I always make it easy for them?

My throat tightens.

“Why do I always give in?” I say again, softer this time.

Like maybe if I ask it quietly enough, it won’t hurt as much.

But it does.

It always does.

The microwave beeps.

I don’t move.

I just stand there, staring at it like I forgot how.

Because suddenly—

I don’t feel hungry at all.

I feel—

tired.

Not the kind of tired sleep fixes.

The kind that sits in your chest and doesn’t leave.

I push myself off the counter and walk down the hall to my room, closing the door behind me like I always do.

Like this is the only place I’m allowed to feel anything.

I drop onto my bed, staring up at the ceiling.

And then—

It hits.

All of it.

At once.

The embarrassment.

The anger.

The humiliation.

The way it never stops.

A sharp breath catches in my throat.

“God, I hate this,” I whisper.

My eyes burn.

I blink fast, trying to stop it.

Don’t cry.

Don’t cry.

Don’t—

A tear slips anyway.

Then another.

And suddenly I can’t stop.

I roll onto my side, curling in on myself as the tears come harder, faster, like they’ve been waiting all day for this exact moment.

No one sees this.

No one ever sees this.

At school, I’m quiet.

At home, I’m fine.

To everyone else—

I just take it.

Like it doesn’t matter.

Like it doesn’t hurt.

But it does.

It hurts every single time.

“Why is it always me?” I choke out.

The words come out broken.

Ugly.

Real.

“What is wrong with me?”

That’s the question that sticks.

The one that always comes back.

Because it has to be something, right?

There has to be a reason people look at me like that.

Talk to me like that.

Treat me like I don’t matter.

Like I’m—

less.

I push myself up slightly, wiping at my face, my gaze drifting across the room.

And landing—

On the mirror.

I freeze.

For a second, I don’t move.

Then slowly—

I stand.

My legs feel heavy as I walk toward it.

Like I already know what I’m going to see.

Like I already know I’m not going to like it.

I stop in front of it.

And look.

Really look.

Oversized hoodie.

Loose jeans.

Everything about me hidden, covered, muted.

Safe.

Or at least that’s what I’ve always told myself.

But standing here now—

It doesn’t feel safe.

It feels like I’ve been trying to erase myself.

Piece by piece.

“I don’t even look like… me,” I whisper.

But then—

That thought shifts.

Because I don’t even know who me is supposed to be.

I just know who I’m not.

Not pretty enough.

Not confident enough.

Not the kind of girl people look at and want.

Not the kind of girl Beckett Cross would ever—

I cut that thought off immediately.

Because that’s not even something I should be thinking about.

It’s stupid.

It’s pointless.

It’s—

dangerous.

I shake my head, turning away from the mirror, but the feeling doesn’t go away.

It stays.

That same question.

That same ache.

Why can’t I just be different?

I’ve tried.

I have.

I’ve tried changing things.

Clothes.

Hair.

The way I act.

But every time—

It goes wrong.

Every time—

It just gives them something new to laugh at.

Maybe this is just who I am.

Maybe this is all I’m ever going to be.

The girl people pick.

The girl people laugh at.

The girl who stays quiet because speaking up only makes it worse.

I sit back down on my bed, pulling my knees up, wrapping my arms around them.

And then—

Lila’s voice echoes in my head.

“You’ve spent so long trying to be invisible… you forgot you were never invisible to begin with.”

I swallow hard.

And then—

“Step one.”

I let out a shaky breath.

Mateo.

The salon.

The idea of changing something.

Even something small.

It shouldn’t feel this big.

It shouldn’t feel this terrifying.

But it does.

Because what if it goes wrong again?

What if it just gives them more reasons?

What if—

I close my eyes.

“…What if it doesn’t?” I whisper.

The thought is quiet.

Fragile.

But it’s there.

And it’s new.

I tighten my arms around myself.

“I don’t want to feel like this anymore,” I say softly.

Because that’s the truth.

More than anything else.

I don’t want to hate what I see.

I don’t want to feel like I have to hide.

I don’t want to keep crying alone in a room no one else ever steps into.

I want—

Something different.

Even if I don’t know what that looks like yet.

Even if I’m terrified of it.

I take a shaky breath.

Then reach for my phone.

My fingers hover over Lila’s name for a second.

Before I can overthink it—

I text her.

Ella: …tell your cousin I’ll think about it.

I stare at the message after I send it.

My heart still pounding.

Because that wasn’t a yes.

But it wasn’t a no either.

And for me—

That’s something.