Slow Burn

Chapter Five

The first thing I notice when I come home is the smell of bread and something sweet from the kitchen. Lila is there, perched on a stool, her legs swinging slightly, her fingers picking at a loose thread on her sweater. She’s talking to Charles, who’s leaning against the counter like he owns the place, smiling too widely at something she said. It’s a stupidly ordinary scene that makes me almost want to roll my eyes, except for the way Lila’s eyes soften whenever he looks at her. It’s annoying. I don’t want to admit that it’s kind of beautiful.

I drop my bag in the hall. The thump makes them both turn toward me, and I’m immediately aware that they’re expecting something: a smile, a greeting, something human. I shrug instead.

“Hey,” I mutter. My voice sounds hollow, even to me.

Charles waves. Lila giggles. A little. It doesn’t reach her eyes. She’s been like that lately—laughing softly but her hands trembling just a fraction too long when she puts them on the counter. I can see it, even if no one else would. That’s how you know someone’s quietly breaking: the little things. The tremor in their fingers when they reach for a mug. The way they hesitate before answering a question they should know the answer to. Small, almost invisible, but it’s there if you look.

I glance at her. “Homework?” I ask, though I already know the answer.

She shakes her head. “No… I mean, yes, I just… not yet.” Her voice cracks slightly. I look away. I’m not good at comforting people, especially Lila. She’s small, too fragile, and I feel like touching her might break her further. So I do the only thing I know: nothing.

Charles clears his throat. “Hey, Ash,” he says. He’s careful, almost overly polite. I can tell he’s aware that I don’t really like him. Not that I hate him—Ashley-hate is reserved for very specific people—but I’m indifferent, which might be worse. “We were thinking of going to the park later. You… wanna come?”

I blink. I consider saying no, because that’s what I do, automatically. “Nah.”

Lila pouts, but she doesn’t argue. That’s normal for her too. She doesn’t push when she’s tired, when she’s sad, or when she’s pretending to be happy. Charles frowns slightly. I feel a twinge of guilt, but I cover it with a shrug. I’ve gotten good at shrugging.

I head upstairs. My room is exactly the same as it always is: posters crooked, clothes in small, strategic piles on the floor, my laptop open on the desk like a tiny, glowing beacon. I sit on the edge of the bed and stare at the screen. The notifications from Ethan are already there. I don’t open them. Not yet. I don’t know why. Maybe because I don’t want to respond. Maybe because I do. It’s impossible to tell with me.

Lila’s voice drifts up the stairs. She’s still talking, laughing quietly, and there’s a sort of tension in her words. I hear Charles trying to keep her calm. Trying. Not perfect, but he’s trying. That’s rare. That’s… enough, I guess.

I flop onto the bed and open my blog. I don’t write immediately. I just stare. The cursor blinks at me, patient, knowing I’ll type something eventually. Anything. Anything to convince myself I exist for more than thirty seconds at a time.

I type:

Lila is too soft for this world. Charles is too good for her. And I’m here, doing nothing, as usual.

It feels pointless. But it always does. Everything feels pointless. I leave it there.

I hear footsteps upstairs—Lila, I assume—and then my door creaks. She pokes her head in.

“Hey,” she whispers. “You okay?”

I turn toward her, the exact motion of indifference. “Fine,” I say.

She steps inside anyway. “You look… tired,” she says, cautiously. Not the ‘I’m judging you’ kind of tired, the real, human tired. She doesn’t know that I’ve been tired for years. I want to tell her, but words feel heavy. So I just stare at her.

She sits on the bed beside me. The mattress dips under her weight. My stomach tightens slightly. She notices it. “You’re not… you’re not mad at me, are you?”

I shake my head. “No. You’re… fine.”

She smiles a little. That’s all she needs. That’s all anyone ever needs, really. But I can’t give it. So I just let her be.

The quiet stretches for a moment. Then she pulls out her phone and starts scrolling. I glance at the ceiling. Maybe I should be doing something productive. Maybe I should care about my grades, my friends, my life. But the effort it would take to pretend to care is too much. Too much. So I close my eyes instead.

A message buzzes. Ethan.

I open it, despite myself:

“Where are you?”

I don’t reply immediately. I don’t know why. Because replying means acknowledging him. Acknowledging anything. It’s been a long day, a long week, a long life. Replying would make me responsible for the feelings of another human being.

I hear Lila laugh softly at something on her phone. I’m reminded of how different she is from me. She feels. She hopes. She hurts. And I… I just exist.

I type back to Ethan:

“Home.”

He replies almost immediately:

“Can I come by?”

I hesitate. Not because I don’t want him to, but because letting people in—even people like him—is dangerous. For me. For them. They might think I’m normal. They might assume I feel things. Which I don’t. Which I barely even know.

I type:

“Yeah, I guess.”

It’s pathetic. I know it’s pathetic. I’ll probably regret it. But I can’t change it.

Lila sighs beside me. “You’re weird,” she says, half-smiling. “Why do you always… exist like this?”

I shrug. “It’s a talent.”

She rolls her eyes, but she doesn’t argue. She’s not trying to understand. She knows she can’t. That’s fine. That’s fine by me.

The rest of the evening drifts by. Charles texts her occasionally, checking if she’s okay. She texts back, slow, measured. I watch the tiny exchange from across the room, the way her fingers tremble slightly over the keyboard. My heart twists—not in a dramatic, romantic way, but in a careful, observational way. She’s my sister. I notice these things. I care more than I’ll admit.

Eventually, Ethan knocks at the door. The knock is soft but persistent. Lila glances at me, her expression uncertain. I don’t move. She shrugs, disappearing down the stairs to answer it, leaving me alone with the quiet hum of my laptop and the fading sunlight.

I wait. For what, I don’t know. For the world to end? For someone to care? For nothing at all? It doesn’t matter. Time passes anyway. I just exist, quietly, until it doesn’t.

Ethan enters. He doesn’t speak at first. He sits on the chair across from me, hands folded neatly in his lap. The quiet is heavy, almost unbearable. I glance at him once. His eyes are patient. Annoyed, maybe, but patient.

“Hi,” he says eventually. Not too loud. Not too soft. Just… existing.

“Hey,” I reply, not looking up.

He smiles faintly. It’s not a warm smile, not yet. Just… there. Just enough to be noticed.

The evening stretches on like this. Words are sparse. Silence is comfortable, in a way that surprises me. I’m not used to people sitting quietly with me. Most people talk too much, or assume I feel something when I don’t. But Ethan doesn’t. He just sits. He waits. He exists in the same space, tolerating the strange, apathetic version of me that I am.

And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough.