When No One's Watching

“I didn’t ask for eggs,” Jonah muttered, pushing the plate aside. “They’re what we have,” Avery replied, not looking up. The kettle clicked off behind her. Her fingers moved on autopilot, folding his lunch in silence. “You could just wake up earlier and make your own,” she added. He scoffed. “You’re not my mom.” The words landed like a slap, but she kept stirring. Their mother shifted on the couch, groaning. “She needs her meds,” Avery said. “She said that yesterday,” Jonah snapped. “Nothing changed.” Avery slid his backpack toward him. “Don’t be late.” Jonah grabbed it with a grunt and slammed the door. The apartment fell quiet except for the ticking wall clock. Avery leaned against the counter, eyes on the burnt-out bulb overhead. “I’m not your mom,” she whispered, echoing Jonah’s voice. But the silence didn’t argue. She checked the time, grabbed her bag, and walked out without locking the door. “Wait—Avery?” She didn’t stop. The student calling her had the wrong girl. Wind chased dry leaves across the library steps. Footsteps echoed. She glanced up—then froze. Eli Chen walked past, phone in hand, eyes already on her. His gaze flicked up. He didn’t smile. He didn’t need to. Her breath caught. “Morning,” he said. It came out softer than it should have. Avery looked away first. “Hey.” They kept walking. Behind her, the door opened with a thud. “I swear, this professor’s gonna kill us,” someone laughed from behind her. Avery sat on the low wall beside the stairs and opened her notebook. Lines formed—then faltered. She tore the page out, folded it in half, then again. The wind pulled it from her hands before she could pocket it. It tumbled down the steps. Eli paused ahead, watching it fall. He didn’t move to pick it up. She didn’t move to chase it. And still—it mattered. “Okay, but Avery, can you just… put this into a slideshow?” “Yeah, you’re good at formatting.” “I’ll do the pitch part,” said the boy in the blazer. “People like my voice.” Avery nodded. No one looked at her. “Deadline’s Thursday, cool?” “It’s tomorrow,” she said quietly. “Huh?” “Tomorrow,” she repeated, louder. “It’s due tomorrow.” Silence. Then a laugh. “Oh—my bad. Can you still do it though?” Avery didn’t answer. Professor Vance paused by the door. Their eyes met. A nod. Barely. Then gone. Her phone buzzed in her lap: Jonah: can u send $20 She typed back: Soon. Deleted it. Typed again: Okay. Sent. She walked out before the bell. The hallway felt bigger than the classroom. Outside the window, trees swayed beneath a washed-out sky. Avery stood still. Someone laughed behind a door. Inside her pocket, the phone buzzed again. “Did you microwave that?” Avery asked, placing a second plate down. Jonah scrolled without looking up. “It’s fine.” Their mother stared at the muted TV, blinking slowly. A spoon clinked against ceramic. The clock on the wall ticked louder. “You didn’t eat,” Avery said, glancing at her mother. “I’m not hungry.” “You didn’t eat yesterday.” “I said I’m fine.” Jonah exhaled through his nose. “She’s always like this. Just drop it.” Avery folded her napkin. “You could help sometimes, Jonah.” “I didn’t ask for this either.” He stood, grabbed his plate, and walked it to the sink. “Leave it. I’ll wash.” “You always do,” he muttered. The faucet dripped once. Then again. Then again. Avery stood at the sink, sleeves rolled up, water warming under her hands. Behind her, the dining chairs scraped. The hallway swallowed their footsteps. She washed one plate, then another. Soap suds clung to her wrist like they were trying to stay. “I said oat milk,” the customer snapped, holding out the cup like it stank. Avery took it, nodded once. “I’ll fix it.” “You didn’t even say sorry.” She nodded again. That was the sorry. Behind her, something shattered. “Damn it!” Marcus shouted from behind the bar. “Slipped right out of my hands.” Hot milk steamed on the tiles. “You okay?” Avery asked. He smirked, wiped his brow. “You look worse than the floor.” “Thanks.” “I mean it. You look dead.” She forced a smile. “Guess I’m not haunting you hard enough.” In the corner, a folded bill lay half-hidden under a napkin. She picked it up. “Hey, free karma,” Marcus said. She shook her head. “Next shift.” The bell above the door jingled faintly. Outside, rain smeared the streetlights. Avery leaned against the espresso machine, palms flat against warm steel. She watched the puddle on the floor stretch toward her shoe. It stopped—just short. The fluorescent light flickered overhead, humming faintly. Avery stared at her reflection—eyes glassy, jaw tight. Someone knocked on the stall beside her. “Almost done?” “Yeah,” she whispered. The mirror didn’t move. But her lip did. She pressed her palms to the sink. Her voice cracked, barely audible. “You’re fine.” From the hallway: laughter, silverware clinking. She smoothed her hair, one side at a time. Pressed her fingers beneath her eyes. Behind her, the door creaked open. A new girl entered. “Oh—sorry.” Avery stepped aside, voice steady now. “It’s all yours.” The girl blinked, smiled politely. Avery smiled back. Not too wide. Just enough. Just believable. Alone again, she turned to leave. Paused. Glanced back at the mirror. “Still here,” she said under her breath. Then she flipped off the light. Left the room in darkness. The silence behind her never flinched. “You wanna come?” Kira’s voice pulled Avery from her thoughts. “We’re grabbing noodles. That place by the station.” Avery shifted her weight. “I’ve got stuff.” Kira nodded. “Maybe next time.” “Yeah.” But they both knew she wouldn’t. She walked slow, her boots scuffing damp concrete. The city buzzed in warm hues—neon signs, rustling leaves, soft jazz leaking from a diner. Past the glowing bookstore, she glanced sideways. Eli was wiping the counter. He looked up. Their eyes met through the glass. Neither of them smiled. He didn’t wave. She didn’t stop. But her pace slowed. His hand paused mid-wipe. That was enough. The bell above his door jingled faintly as he locked up. He turned off the lights. Avery kept walking. The sidewalk shimmered in reflection. For a moment, it looked like she was walking beside herself. She didn’t look back. “No oat milk again?” Avery reached for the cup. “I’ll comp it.” “I don’t want a comp. I want what I ordered.” “Of course.” She turned away, face blank. “Smile more,” the woman called after her. She didn’t. Her phone buzzed. Jonah: got into it w/ teacher. call me. She stepped behind the counter. “I need five minutes.” Her boss frowned. “Something wrong?” “No. It’s nothing serious.” Jonah’s voice hit her hard through the phone. “She made me read out loud. I hate that. You said I’d be okay!” “I know,” she whispered. “I’m sorry.” “You’re not even here.” “I’ll fix it.” Click. Kira appeared, coat half-zipped. “You coming tonight?” Avery shook her head. “Not really a night person.” The espresso machine hissed, drowning out Kira’s reply. Avery wiped the same corner of the counter three times. Her reflection in the metal looked blurred—soft around the edges. She said, “I’ll catch you next time.” Kira didn’t press. “Hold on—” the driver muttered. The brakes hissed. Avery swayed slightly, her temple pressed against the cold glass. Outside, taillights stretched into rivers. Inside, the overhead lights flickered. She didn’t look up. She didn’t need to. A couple whispered in the seat ahead. “Did you tell him?” “Not yet.” “You said you would.” Their voices faded into the hum of the engine. Avery blinked. Once. Slowly. Her reflection floated beside her—two versions, neither fully in focus. Rain tapped the window like fingernails. She breathed through her nose, shallow and steady. The bus turned. Her reflection peeled away for half a second—then returned, softer now, like she was fading back in. The next stop’s bell dinged. Avery didn’t move. The man beside her stood and shuffled past. His bag brushed her knee. She flinched, barely. Her hand tightened around the metal bar. Outside, her stop approached. She didn’t press the button. The door clicked behind her. The living room lights were off, save for the glow of the TV playing a silent documentary. Her mother sat curled under a blanket, eyes heavy. “We’re out of meds,” she said flatly. Avery slid her phone from her pocket. “Which ones?” Her mother didn’t look at her. “The white ones. The ones for mornings.” Avery nodded. Typed a reminder. “Jonah asleep?” “In his room.” A snore followed from the hallway. Avery started to turn away. “You’ll get them tomorrow?” her mother added, like it was nothing. “Yes.” “I don’t have anyone else,” she mumbled. Avery paused. “I’ll figure it out,” she said quietly. Her mother didn’t answer. She moved toward the kitchen. Behind her, her mother spoke, barely above a whisper. “That’s what you do.” Avery stopped. The fridge’s hum filled the silence. The hallway lamp cast her shadow longer than it was. She didn’t turn around. The door creaked as she stepped into her room. Jonah’s light was on down the hall, the muffled hum of his gaming headset leaking through. Avery dropped her bag by the door. The sketchbook waited on her desk. She opened it, flipping past the old pages. Pencil smudges. Half-drawn faces. She tapped her pen against the edge, then hovered it over the clean paper. “Just one line,” she whispered, like it might coax something out. Nothing came. From the hallway: laughter—not hers. The pen clicked shut. She placed the sketchbook on the floor beside her bag. It didn’t close all the way. She didn’t fix it. Avery lay down on the floor, cheek pressed to the wood. No blanket. No pillow. Just her. The ceiling stared back, blank and wide. Her arm curled inward, palm grazing the sketchbook’s cover. She didn’t reach for it. Crayons rolled under the table. Little Avery reached for them, belly pressed to the carpet, tongue between her teeth. “Blue,” she whispered, drawing a shaky sky. Above her, a page turned. “Still hiding under there?” her father teased. She grinned without looking up. “I’m building a world,” she said. “Ah,” he nodded, legs crossed on the couch. “Architect of everything.” Another crayon broke in her hand. She frowned. He leaned down, gently swapped it for a fresh one. “Don’t forget, baby,” he said. “You were always meant for more than this room.” Her scribbling slowed. She looked up. He smiled—soft, certain. The light around them felt like sunlight, even though it was night. Avery’s eyes opened to a cold ceiling. The blanket of warmth vanished. The glow from the hallway bulb buzzed dimly. She reached for her phone: 4:03 AM. Outside, a car door slammed. Inside, her hand curled around nothing. “—you don’t listen. That’s the problem,” Jonah’s voice snapped through the speaker. A teacher’s tone responded, clipped and professional. Avery pulled her sweater over her head, slowly. She didn’t interrupt. She tied her apron. She left the room. The café was quiet after rush hour. She wiped the counter. Then wiped it again. Marcus peeked from the back. “That thing’s spotless.” She nodded once. Her boss approached, stirring her tea. “Everything okay at home?” “Yeah.” “You sure?” “It’s fine.” The fluorescent bulb above her buzzed softly. She reached for the rag again. Outside, a child dropped a cookie. The mother sighed, bent to pick it up. Avery stared out, unmoving. Just watching. The rag dropped with a soft thud. Her hands stayed on the counter, fingers curled slightly. “I’ll figure it out,” she whispered. No one responded. No music played. The lights stayed on. And the café hummed—like it always had.