Parents Aren't Allowed
1158 Words
Amara woke up with a pounding behind her eyes and that ache in her chest when you know sleep didn’t happen. Her pillow was all bunched up and damp right where she’d drooled or maybe cried—she couldn’t tell anymore. Everything was quiet, except her brain screaming about last night. She closed her eyes and tried to blot it out, but it wasn’t working.
She slid out of bed, pulled on her clothes without thinking, and stared at the room. Everything looked the same but felt wrong. She choked back a sigh and headed to the bathroom. Her reflection looked wrecked—hair everywhere and bags under her eyes that weren’t going away. She splashed water on her face, smoothed her hair, but the mess followed her.
Downstairs, the mop leaned against the wall. She grabbed it like it was the only thing that made sense. She spent the morning like she was scrubbing out her brain—floor, counters, living room, even vacuuming again because her brain needed the noise. She refolded laundry three times just to see her hands moving. Everything burned—her hands raw from scrubbing and her back screaming from bending and leaning and carrying water buckets.
Despite all that, her mind kept drifting to Leo. Leo. Even typing the name made her stomach twist. She scrubbed until her fingers shook, until the water in the bucket turned gray, until she realized it didn’t change anything.
His door stayed closed. Just silence. That terrified her more than anything. She’d seen something in him last night—something truth-colored, darker than his snarky mask. He wasn’t just distance and indifference; he was hiding something real. Or maybe pretending he was. She tried to tell herself it didn’t matter. None of it was her business. He could stay locked in his room the rest of his life for all she cared.
But somewhere deep, she didn’t mean that. She glanced at the hall again. Just once more. He didn’t move.
And then the front door opened and her parents barged in, voices loud. She plastered on a smile that felt fake even to her. Hugged them both. Smiled. Walked through the house like she hadn’t just cleansed every corner to wash away the last night’s chaos. She could feel their eyes scanning.
Dinner was reheated takeout from their trip—something bland for business, not home. Her mom asked about her semester and AP classes. Her dad asked about the football team. She gave short answers and lifted forkfuls of rice like a robot. She looked at the empty chair beside her and swallowed too hard.
“Where’s Leo?” her dad asked, halfway through a mouthful.
“Sleeping,” she said, chewing.
“Again?” Her mom raised an eyebrow.
“He’s tired,” Amara mumbled.
Her mom nodded slowly, but her eyes shifted toward her husband. Something quiet passed between them.
Then her dad said, careful, “If he’s tired again, maybe let him rest. Don’t… disturb him tonight.”
Amara frowned. “Why? Is he sick?”
Her mom hesitated. The silence felt wrong. Then she smiled too fast. “No. Just teenage things. Boys his age can be moody.”
“That’s not an answer,” Amara said softly.
Her dad’s fork paused in midair. “Drop it, Amara. Just give him space, okay?”
It wasn’t a request. It was that calm tone he used when he didn’t want questions. She felt her stomach twist.
She wanted to ask what they knew—because it sounded like they knew something. Something they weren’t saying. But she just nodded and poked her food again.
Her mom changed the subject too quickly, talking about some trip, some client, some nothing. The words blurred. Amara’s thoughts stayed on Leo. The empty chair. The closed door. The uneasy look her dad gave when his name came up.
They didn’t know. Or maybe they did.
Dinner ended, and she practically sprinted up the stairs, slammed her door shut, and sat on the floor. The whole room spun like a Ferris wheel. She slammed her hands into her knees, fighting back tears because none of this made sense and she was exhausted.
She stared at her phone but didn’t reach for it this time. Something in her chest itched like warning.
She lay back on her bed, eyes open, watching shadows crawl along the ceiling. A soft sound came from the window. She froze.
The latch clicked.
Her breath caught. The window slid open quietly, and Leo climbed in, barefoot, shirt clinging to his chest, moonlight catching the side of his face. He looked like trouble walking.
She sat up so fast her head spun. “What the hell, Leo?”
He grinned faintly. “Couldn’t sleep.”
“Use the door like a normal person.”
“Normal’s boring.”
She wanted to throw a pillow at him. “You shouldn’t even be here. My parents—”
He cut her off, stepping closer. “Already asleep. You worry too much.”
He looked fine. Too fine. Like nothing had happened. Like last night’s storm hadn’t even touched him. It made her angrier than she expected.
“You scared me,” she whispered.
He tilted his head. “Scared you? Or made you curious?”
“Both,” she snapped.
He smirked. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“You’re impossible,” she muttered, folding her arms.
He sat on her windowsill like it was his seat, leaning back, watching her like she was something fragile and dangerous at once. “You’ve got that look again.”
“What look?”
“The one where you think too much.”
She scowled. “Why are you here, Leo?”
He shrugged. “Because you wouldn’t come to me.”
“Maybe there’s a reason.”
He looked at her for a long second. The air between them thinned. “You shouldn’t listen to everything they tell you about me,” he said quietly.
Her breath caught. “What does that mean?”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Nothing. Forget it.”
“Leo—”
“Goodnight, Amara.” He pushed himself up, moving toward the window again.
“Wait.” She stepped forward, her hand brushing his wrist before she could stop herself. “Are you… okay?”
His gaze softened, almost painfully. “I will be.”
And before she could ask what that meant, he was gone. Just gone. The window swung shut, and she was left standing there with her hand still half raised.
The night pressed in heavy. The words he left behind tangled in her head.
You shouldn’t listen to everything they tell you about me.
She sat on her bed, heartbeat wild. She didn’t know what to believe anymore. Only that Leo wasn’t fine. And maybe, just maybe, neither was she.
- Writer
