Ayla's POV.
I woke up to yelling. Sharp, angry voices tearing through the thin walls of our apartment like a storm. I lay still on the threadbare couch, blinking at the cracked ceiling, trying to will the noise away. But it only got worse.
I was already halfway dressed for school...jeans pulled on, one foot slipped into a scuffed sneaker, a wrinkled shirt bunched in my hands. The morning light filtered weakly through the grimy window, making the dust in the air look like tiny ghosts. I tried to steady my breath, but the noise from the living room kept eating at my nerves.
Mom’s voice was rough and slurred...the way it always sounded when she was either wasted or furious. Another voice was deeper, sharp, full of venom I didn’t know but felt like poison anyway.
“I’m not some cheap joke
