Chapter 1

I tucked the thick kindergarten graduation yearbook into the deepest pocket of my backpack, hoping no one would notice the bulge.

The other children held their copies against their chests like treasures.

I, on the other hand, carried mine home like a thief slipping past a guard.

Mom had always taught me that anything without practical value was nothing more than visual clutter.

Did this yearbook qualify as clutter? I suppose it did. It was bulky, took up space, and wasn't useful to Mom or Dad in the slightest.

My stomach churned with dread as I walked home. I was terrified that the moment I walked through the door, Mom would feed it to the shredder.

But I couldn't bring myself to throw it away. It held photos of my best friends and me.

I opened the front door to find Mom already in the middle of a purge. She was tossing the family's only potted plant into a garbage bag because some of its leaves had fallen and made a mess on the floor.

Edging along the wall, I tried to slip unnoticed into my room.

"What's that bulge in your backpack?"

Mom's voice echoed through the spacious living room.

I froze, then slowly pulled out the yearbook.

"It's my graduation yearbook…"

Mom took it from my hands. She didn't even flip it open before dropping it into the pile of discards by the front door.

"Only people who can't let go of the past hold onto things like this. We live in the present. Get rid of it."

"But…" My eyes filled with tears. "My friends are in there…"

Dad walked over, carrying a black trash bag. "Eddie, friendships don't last forever. Too many attachments will only weigh you down. Learn to let go—that's how you'll grow into the person you're meant to be."

He swept the yearbook into the bag, along with the old toothbrush I'd replaced that morning.

I felt the sting of tears behind my eyes, but I held them back.

In this household, tears were considered a plumbing issue more than an emotional one.

I became an expert at breathing so softly that I could probably have snuck past a sleeping cat without waking it.

The one thing I couldn't stop was my own body. I kept growing, and it terrified me down to my bones.

The first of every month was Space Usage Evaluation Day. I dreaded it.

Dad would stand with a measuring tape and call me over. He measured my height, the width of my shoulders, and the length of my feet.

When the numbers showed I had grown, he clicked his tongue and frowned at the tape as if it had betrayed him.

"Eddie, you've grown nearly two inches this month."

He sounded disappointed and worried. "Do you know what that means?"

I stared at my bare feet, too afraid to answer.

"It means you're taking up more vertical space. Your shadow is getting bigger."

He rolled up the tape and looked around. "To offset the extra confinement you're causing, we'll have to get rid of the single armchair."

That chair was where Mom always sat to read.

I couldn't bear to meet her eyes. Because of me, she would lose her only spot to relax.

"I'm sorry…" I whispered, feeling a sting in my nose.

"Apologizing won't undo the problem. You need to learn to control your desires, including your desire to grow."

Dad's face was grim. "If the soul is weighed down by an increasingly heavy body, it can never truly transcend."

That evening, the armchair was carried away. Without it, the living room felt even more barren. Every sound bounced off the walls like a stone on glass.

I curled up in the corner, wishing I could fold myself into a piece of paper and slip into the narrow crack between the walls.

If I could do that, maybe I would finally stop existing in the way that bothered them.