The Change

The alarm sliced through the silence like a knife—shrill, relentless, and way too early. I groaned, arm flailing toward the rectangular clock on my nightstand, missing it by a few inches. “Ugh, shut up,” I mumbled, voice thick with sleep and irritation. I slapped at the snooze button once, then again, until finally—there was blessed silence. For a moment, I just sat there, tangled in sheets, blinking at the ceiling like I’ve been asleep for a century. The light blue curtains did a terrible job of keeping the morning out. I dragged myself up and tugged them tighter, but the sun still found me. My blue eyes squinted against it, already annoyed. Mornings were not my thing. I glanced toward the hallway. No sounds. No footsteps. No coffee brewing. No mom. Not that I expected any of that. She’s probably still out—again. I didn’t even remember hearing her leave last night. I pulled on the outfit I laid out: a cropped white tee with thin black stripes, shredded jeans, and my white-and-navy converses. The shoes were the only splash of color I allowed myself. Everything else felt safer in grayscale. I grabbed my backpack from the floor, still half-zipped from yesterday, and slung it over my shoulder. No breakfast. No goodbye. Just me, the clock, and the echo of a house that was too quiet. The walk to the bus stop was the same. Dirt road, then turn left at the corner, following the curb to the stop sign at the end of the street. It only took about 5 minutes to make the trek, but I used this time to slip in my earbuds. Block out the world. Prepare for the day ahead. Nobody else lived near my stop, which was a blessing and a curse. Peace, but loneliness. “Something in the Orange” by Zach Bryan fills my lungs as I made it to my stop early as usual. Standing about three feet from the person beside me, I focused on my phone to avoid talking to them. No notifications, no missed calls—Just nothing. It slackened my shoulders as I scroll through messages and click on the contact labelled “Mother.” Last message was sent yesterday at 4 p.m., asking “What’s for dinner tonight?” Where I got no response. It shouldn’t worry me, but it does. That was why while the familiar chug of the engine hums down the street, I quickly typed up a message before getting in line like the others. “Text me when you get home.” This is what I sent, going up the steps and finding my seats when the doors open. Next to me, another girl about my size (a bit taller), was asleep against the window. How was beyond me. I was wide awake, one earbud out to listen to everything else. The ride to school was slow. Boys a few rows down began roughhousing, yelling over some trivial thing that included losing in a game of Uno. Cards flew in the aisle as the two boys got each other in a headlock. The bus came to a halt on the side of the road; everyone’s heads turned towards the drama, including me.