Eli's heart was still in shambles when he got home. He closed the umbrella carefully and shoved it in his bag before opening the door. The door didn’t creak when he opened it.

 That was on purpose. He’d learned exactly how to twist the knob, how to press his foot against the bottom so it didn’t drag on the warped floorboards. It was a survival trick — one of many.

The house was quiet. Always quiet. Too quiet.

The kind of quiet that made his heartbeat feel like a crime.

He shut the door behind him without a sound and slipped off his shoes. One less excuse. Dirt on the carpet meant yelling. Yelling sometimes meant worse.

The living room was dark. Blinds drawn. Cigarette smoke clung to the air, heavy and stale. Seemed as if his parents weren't home. They barely were. Its better this way. He up the stairs, careful to skip the third step — the one that groaned too loud.

His room was still his, technically. Since, his father storm in his room anytime he wants but it was still eli's room.

The walls were bare. He’d taken the posters down after his father tore one in a rage. Said it looked “too soft.” Said boys shouldn’t hang up drawings of other boys. He took out his sketchbook then hid it under the loose floorboard beneath his bed. His umbrella—rafe’s umbrella in his backpack peeked out. 

He quickly took it out and shoved it under his bed. Just then, he heard the front door slam.

He stiffened. He felt his blood going cold. Panick rushed up his nerves. A lump filled his throat.

Heavy footsteps. Then a voice — deep, slurred, already sharp.

“ELI!”

He didn’t answer.

He never answered.

The footsteps pounded up the stairs. His door flew open, crashing against the wall.

His father stood there, drunk and red-faced, a bottle still in his hand. His eyes wild.

“You think you can ignore me now? Gettin’ too good for this house?”

Eli swallowed hard. “am sorry-”

“SHUT UP.”

The bottle flew first. Smashed against the wall just beside Eli’s head. He didn’t flinch. He never flinched anymore.

His father grabbed him by the collar, dragged him up to standing. Breath hot with alcohol. Eyes bloodshot.

“You walk around like you’re better than us. Like you’re not some freak.”

Eli didn’t speak.

He didn’t scream.

He just let it happen.

The shove was hard. He hit the dresser. Something cracked. Maybe his shoulder. Maybe the wood.

Maybe both.

A few kicks made their way to him. He just closed his eyes tightly. He didn't scream or cry, it gave his father satisfaction. 

His father stormed out without another word, muttering something about “ungrateful little shits” and “should’ve been someone else’s problem.”

Eli stayed on the floor. For a long time. His father's words stinged more than his kicks.

He stared at the crack in the plaster across the ceiling.

Then, slowly, quietly, he crawled under his bed , looked at the umbrella for way too long then pulled out the sketchbook. 

Hands trembling.

He drew a hand holding his.

It was of someone he barely knew.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

The pain woke him before the light did.

Eli woke slowly, every part of him aching — joints stiff, skin pulled tight where dried blood stuck to fabric. His shirt clung to him. The bruises on his ribs throbbed with every breath. One eye was swollen at the corner, vision cloudy. He hadn’t meant to fall asleep on the floor, but the bed had felt too far..

Eli breathed through his teeth and stared at the ceiling.

There was a crack in the plaster above his bed. He used to think it looked like a tree branch. Now it just looked like a fracture.

He sit up, groaning. His wounds weren't too bad today. There wasn't that much blood anyways, just few cuts. He peeled off his shirt and wiped at the blood with a wet towel, hissing as it touched the split skin. He didn’t cry. That part of him felt used up. Gone. Like he’d burned it out a long time ago.

He wrapped what he could — gauze over his side, medical tape that barely held. Everything else stayed hidden under a hoodie two sizes too big. His sleeves tugged low over his hands.

The house was quiet.

He didn’t look in the mirror.

Didn’t need to.

He could already hear his father’s voice in his head — “You’re a ghost, Eli. A damn shadow. No one’d even notice if you disappeared.”

And maybe it was true.

He left the house without breakfast.

The walk to school blurred past him in cold air and static thoughts. His sketchbook was tucked under his arm, like always. He held it tighter than usual.

When he stepped through the school doors, the lights felt too bright. The voices too loud. His body too fragile in the crowd.

He kept his head down.

He didn’t want to see anyone.

Especially not him.

But he did.

At the far end of the hall, near the lockers, Rafe leaned against the wall — careless posture, hoodie half-zipped, that lazy kind of confidence that made people nervous. His hands were in his pockets, one foot against the wall.

He looked up — and looked right at Eli.

Eli’s chest clenched.

He turned sharply and walked the other way.He quickened his steps, ducking past a group of kids, slipping around the corner like he was running from something. He was. The rumors about Rafe still played in his head. Part of Eli had feared Rafe before he ever spoke a word to him.

And yet…

The previous day, with the umbrella — the soft words, the way Rafe had looked at him like he saw something — it didn’t match the stories. It didn’t feel like danger.

It had felt like safety. And that scared him even more.

Because what if he was wrong?

What if he let himself believe Rafe was different, and then it turned out he wasn’t? What if he hoped — even just for a second — and ended up broken again?

He couldn’t handle that.

He already felt like nothing. Like a shell walking on borrowed time.

He skipped lunch again. Like always.

Slipped around the gym, hands tight around the sketchbook hidden in his arms like it was something sacred. It was the only thing he had that was still his. The only place he could pour all the things he couldn’t say.

The bleachers were cold when he sat, the metal pressing into his back through the hoodie. Wind cut through the gaps, but it was quiet here. Hidden. Safe.

He opened the sketchbook with shaking fingers.The pencil felt heavier than usual in his hand.

He started to draw. Slowly. Not people this time. Just shadows. A smear of gray. A hand reaching upward from water. Another hand not quite touching it. The space between them felt more real than anything else.

The ache in his chest swelled.

Maybe he’d never be okay. Maybe this was all he was — someone to hurt and then forget. Someone made to be left behind. A face no one looked at twice. A burden. A mistake.

He hated himself for hoping. For wishing someone like Rafe might mean what he said.

That’s when the footsteps came.

Slow. Measured. Almost hesitant.

Eli’s heart stuttered.

He didn’t look up. He didn’t move.

“Didn’t know this was your spot.”

Eli stiffened. His pencil paused mid-line.

Rafe stood at the edge of the bleachers, half-shadowed by the metal frame. He didn’t look smug or smug or sharp — just… there. Quiet.

Eli didn’t say anything.

Rafe stepped up, slow and deliberate, and sat beside him — not too close, but not far either. Just enough that Eli could feel the warmth of him.

“You always eat lunch out here?” he asked.

Eli nodded once, barely.

Rafe pulled something from his hoodie pocket — a granola bar — and set it between them.

“I thought you looked hungry.”

Eli stared at it. Then at Rafe.

His throat felt tight.

“I’m fine,” he murmured.

“You’re not,” Rafe said, but it wasn’t cruel. It wasn’t even pointed.

It was just true. And somehow, that made it worse.

Eli looked away. His fingers gripped the edge of the sketchbook like it might fall without him.

“I don’t need anyone,” he whispered.

“Doesn’t mean you don’t deserve someone.” Rafe said

That made Eli flinch.

“You got home safe yesterday?” Rafe asked. 

Eli nodded—”thank you….for the umbrella…I'll give it back–”

“Keep it. I was gonna throw it anyways”

Eli barely nodded.

Rafe didn’t move. Didn’t push.

They sat in silence for a while — the kind that buzzed with things neither of them knew how to say yet.

Eli didn’t know what to make of it. Didn’t know what to make of him.

But he didn’t tell Rafe to leave.

And Rafe didn’t get up.

His hand stopped shaking. Just a little.

That felt like something. Even if he didn’t have a name for it yet.