Slow Burn

Chapter Three

The first thing I do when I get home from school is exactly the same thing I did yesterday, and the day before that, and every miserable weekday of my life.

I push my bedroom door open with my foot, drop my bag somewhere near the floor, and collapse face‑first onto my bed like a corpse returning to its grave. My laptop sits patiently on my pillow, lid half-open, screen black as if also waiting for me to give it purpose.

I power it on.

The startup sound feels oddly comforting, like the only thing in this world that consistently acknowledges my existence without demanding anything from me. If I were the kind of person who believed in soulmates, my laptop would be mine. We’ve been through everything: depression, boredom, unwanted human interaction, Sunday nights.

Over the past few months, I’ve realized something both tragic and embarrassing: I’m more of a blog than a person. Or maybe a person-shaped blog.

My entire personality exists in scattered entries, scheduled drafts, and sad little tags no one reads. I don’t remember how it started. I think one afternoon I was bored and lonely, which is basically the same as every afternoon. Maybe I needed somewhere to dump whatever was left of me. Maybe the “sign up” button was shiny. Either way, here I am, miserable and dependent on strangers behind glowing screens.

I regret it sometimes.

But if I delete this blog… I actually don’t know what would be left of me.

Blogging is the only place where people talk about themselves in ways that feel real. Honest. Ugly. No pretending. No forced smiles. No “I’m fine” when you’re obviously not. Real life doesn’t allow that. Real life hates honesty. Real life thinks you’re “dramatic” or “attention seeking” for having emotions.

So yes. I blog.

Not for followers. Not for pity. And definitely not to act like those hyper-positive aesthetic blog girls who post quotes like “drink water and stay grateful babe.”

I blog because it’s either this or letting everything rot inside me.

My internet loads slower than a dying snail, which is rude, but I wait. Eventually the screen brightens, and my blog dashboard materializes. A few anonymous messages, mostly harmless. People talking about their own loneliness, their own ‘nothing days’, their own exhaustion. These are my people. The hopeless and the half-alive. Brilliant.

I scroll for a while. I re-read old posts without meaning to. God, I sound pathetic. But at least pathetic is authentic.

After that, I check my social media.

Two notifications. A comment on my last post: “same lol”.

Deep, insightful stuff.

I check my school group chat.

Thirty-eight messages, all of which I ignore because it’s people arguing about whether some boy cheated on a test. I’m fairly sure all of them cheat, so it doesn’t feel like a crime.

And then, like muscle memory, I open that stupid mystery blog again — the one from school that’s been blowing up since yesterday. It loads with a dramatic flourish that it does not deserve. The same ridiculous black-and-white photo sits at the top of the page, except they’ve changed the tagline again.

It now reads:

“Solivage: Quiet Minds Break Loudest.”

I roll my eyes so hard I think I see my brain.

Whoever is behind this anonymous blog is clearly trying too hard. The whole thing feels like someone watched one psychological thriller and decided to become mysterious. Quiet Minds Break Loudest? Sounds like the title of one of those cheap self-help books written by a man who has never had an emotion.

I take the little scrap of paper from my bag — the one Ethan gave me during that annoying moment in the library. The one with “Solivage” scribbled on it in messy handwriting.

I flatten it and stick it in the center of the only bare part of my wall.

Why?

I have no idea.

I don’t know why I do anything. I don’t know why I followed the notes. I don’t know why Ethan looked at me like he knew something. I don’t know why I care.

I groan into my pillow, then lift myself up and shuffle downstairs like a zombie searching for snacks.

Mum is in the kitchen, staring at spreadsheets like they’re romantic poetry. She barely looks up as I pass.

“How was school?” she asks, monotone and distracted, fingers tapping away at her keyboard.

“It was fine,” I say, which basically means nothing.

We don’t talk much anymore. When we were younger — me and Lila — she used to ask things like “How are you feeling?” or “What happened at school?” But now our conversations have boiled down to practical, shallow exchanges that feel more like background noise than communication.

I’m not angry about it.

We’re too similar to understand each other.

That’s the problem with being alike — you can see through each other, and sometimes you don’t like what you see.

The house phone starts ringing.

“Please get that,” Mum says.

I freeze.

I hate the phone.

Phones demand talking. Real talking. With words. No one can see your face or your gestures, so silence doesn’t count. You can’t nod or shrug your way through a phone call. You have to speak. Disgusting.

I sigh dramatically and answer it.

“Hello?”

There’s a pause. A long, awkward one.

Then a voice: “Er… Ashley?”

I nearly drop the phone.

Because I recognize the voice.

Ethan.

“Um. Yes?” I say, because what else am I supposed to say?

“How did you get my number?”

“Your sister gave it to me.”

Of course she did. Lila is sunshine and friendliness and trust in human beings. She probably handed it to him like a free sample.

Ethan clears his throat. “Uh. I just… wanted to check if you got home safe.”

“Why?”

I genuinely don’t understand the question.

“You seemed… I don’t know. I guess I was worried.”

Worried.

People don’t worry about me.

I don’t even worry about me.

I don’t say anything. The silence stretches painfully long.

Then he speaks again.

“Ashley… do you remember me? From before?”

My chest goes cold.

There it is again — the thing he keeps hinting at.

The thing I can’t recall.

The familiarity I feel when I look at him.

“No,” I admit quietly. “I don’t.”

Another silence. This one heavier.

“It’s okay,” he says softly. “I remember enough for both of us.”

I don’t know what that means. I don’t like that I don’t know what that means.

“I have to go,” I blurt out, even though I don’t.

“Yeah. Sure. Um. Goodnight.”

I hang up before he can say anything else.

My hands are shaking.

I pretend they aren’t.

I avoid Mum’s eyes and go back upstairs, taking the stairs two at a time like something might jump out behind me.

In my room, I open my laptop again because that’s what I do when the world gets too loud. I blog.

I write about meaningless things — school, people, loneliness, invisible webs connecting everyone except me. I write about Ethan without mentioning his name, because admitting he’s real feels dangerous. I write about Natalie and her relentless hopefulness. About Elsie and her quiet glances. About the way everything feels blurry around the edges lately.

I post it and immediately regret it, as usual.

Before shutting my laptop, I check my notifications again and notice something odd:

A new anonymous message.

It says:

“You’re not as invisible as you think.”

Great.

Now either Ethan has found my blog or someone else is stalking me.

Perfect. Just what I needed.

I slam my laptop shut and lie on my back, staring at the ceiling like it might explain the universe to me.

Lila knocks on my door quietly.

“Ash? Are you okay? You were on the phone for a while.”

“I’m fine,” I say.

It’s always a lie.

She nods, believing me the way only sweet people do. Her younger face softens the room. She smells like vanilla shampoo and innocence.

“I made brownies,” she whispers. “If you want some.”

“Maybe later,” I say.

She smiles and leaves.

She doesn’t know she’s the only reason I stay.

She doesn’t know she’s the only person on earth I can’t bear to disappoint.

Once she’s gone, I let myself breathe again.

Slow. Quiet. Shaky.

Tomorrow will come.

School will drag.

Ethan will look at me like he knows something.

Natalie will talk about things I pretend to listen to.

People will be people.

And I’ll still be me.

Uninterested.

Unmotivated.

Unfixable.

But maybe not entirely alone.