Slow Burn

Chapter Twelve

There is a very specific kind of tired that comes from doing nothing all day. Not physical tired. Not sleepy tired. Just the sort of tired where your bones feel like they are quietly judging you.

I am sitting on my bed with my back against the wall, laptop balanced on my knees, staring at a blinking cursor like it personally offended me. My blog has been open for twenty minutes. I have typed three sentences and deleted all of them. One of them was “I hate everyone.” Another was “I am fine.” Both of those are lies, which is impressive, because they are also my two default emotions.

From the other side of the wall, I can hear Lila humming. She always hums when she’s doing something delicate, like brushing her hair or lining up the pens on her desk so they’re perfectly straight. It’s a quiet, careful sound. Like she’s afraid the room might break if she’s too loud.

I close my laptop without saving anything.

Downstairs, Mum is on a call, pacing the kitchen like she’s rehearsing for a play where the role is “person who has their life together.” Dad is not home yet. This means the house is operating in its usual half-silent mode.

I knock on Lila’s door once and then open it without waiting, because manners dissolve when you share DNA.

She’s sitting cross-legged on her bed, wearing one of my old hoodies. It looks better on her. Everything does. Charles’ name is written in the corner of her notebook in neat handwriting, like it belongs there permanently.

“You okay?” she asks, immediately, because she always asks that first.

“Define okay,” I say.

She smiles. Soft. Careful. The kind of smile that feels like it might bruise if you touch it too hard.

We sit in silence for a bit. This is normal. Silence is our shared language. Lila leans her head against my shoulder, light as a question mark.

“You going to write tonight?” she asks.

“Maybe,” I say. I probably won’t.

She nods like that’s an acceptable answer, because she never pushes. Sometimes I wish she would. Sometimes I’m grateful she doesn’t.

Back in my room, my phone vibrates.

Natalie.

“are you alive?”

“pls respond before i assume youve joined a cult”

I type back.

“alive unfortunately”

Another buzz almost immediately.

“rude”

“anyway ethan asked about you today”

That sentence sits there, glowing, doing absolutely nothing to help my heart rate.

“what did he say”

There’s a pause. Three dots. Gone. Three dots again.

“he asked if you were skipping again”

“i said you were probably plotting the downfall of society”

he laughed

I stare at the screen. I do not plot the downfall of society. I barely plot my own day.

“cool”

“that is not a normal response ash”

I lock my phone and throw it onto my bed like it personally betrayed me.

Ethan exists in my life in a way that feels accidental. Like we collided in a hallway and forgot to separate properly. He remembers things about me that I don’t remember telling him. He says my name like it’s familiar, like it belongs to his mouth.

I don’t know what to do with that.

The next day at school, everything feels too loud. The hallways smell like deodorant and regret. Someone bumps into me and says “sorry” without meaning it. Natalie is talking about something dramatic involving a group chat and a misunderstanding and possibly tears.

I nod at the right moments.

In the library, I take my usual seat. The one by the window. The one where no one ever sits next to me unless all other options have been exhausted.

Ethan sits down anyway.

“You don’t look thrilled,” he says.

“I never look thrilled,” I reply. “That’s my brand.”

He smiles, small and genuine. It’s annoying.

“You didn’t blog last night,” he says.

I blink. “You check my blog?”

He shrugs. “Sometimes.”

There is something deeply unsettling about being perceived.

“I was busy,” I lie.

“With what?”

“Existing.”

He laughs again. I do not understand why I keep saying things that make him do that.

We sit in silence. A good one. The kind that doesn’t demand explanations. Outside, the sky is grey in a way that feels personal.

“I like this,” he says suddenly.

“What.”

“This,” he repeats, gesturing vaguely. “Sitting here. Not pretending.”

I think about all the things I pretend to be. Normal. Fine. Interested. Alive in the socially acceptable way.

“Don’t get used to it,” I say.

“Too late,” he replies.

Later, in the bathroom, I look at myself in the mirror and feel nothing. Which is better than feeling bad, I guess. Progress.

That night, I open my laptop again.

This time, I write.

Not about Ethan. Not directly. About libraries. About quiet. About how some people feel like a pause button. About how terrifying it is to want something you didn’t plan for.

I post it without rereading.

Five minutes later, a notification appears.

Ethan has commented.

this one felt close

hope youre okay

I close my laptop, heart pounding, and lie back on my bed staring at the ceiling.

I am not okay.”