A QUIET FIXATION

THE ROOMS I NEVER LEAVE

RAVEN'S POV

Some mornings I wake up and forget which version of myself I’m supposed to be.

The quiet one. The obedient one. The one who never makes things harder than they already are.

The girl who says “I’m fine” even when she isn’t. Especially when she isn’t.

Today is one of those mornings.

I lie in bed with my eyes open, staring at the ceiling like it might blink first. It’s barely light out, but I know Dad’s already up. I can hear the low hum of the coffee machine and the soft thud of Jason’s door closing again after another all-nighter.

Jason. He probably hasn’t slept. Again.

Sometimes I wonder if we’re more alike than we let on. Living in different corners of the house, both pretending we’re not quietly falling apart.

I get up slowly, like moving too fast might cause something inside me to crack. I pull on an old hoodie from the floor — one of Jason’s, I think — and tie my hair up without brushing it.

Downstairs smells like burnt toast and that stale tension that’s been living in our kitchen lately.

Lisa is at the stove, her back to me. She doesn’t turn when I enter. She’s gotten good at the dance — when to speak, when to let me drift past like fog.

“Morning,” she says after a beat, like she’s testing the temperature.

“Morning,” I reply. A safe word.

She flips something in the pan. The sizzle fills the space where conversation should be.

Dad’s at the table, reading emails on his phone, looking like he hasn’t blinked in hours.

“Any plans after school?” he asks without looking up.

I shrug. “Just work.”

The word “work” makes Lisa flinch, just a little. She hates that I took the bakery job. Thinks I’m doing too much.

She doesn’t understand that it’s not about money.

It’s about standing behind a counter with sugar on my hands and a reason not to talk.

School is noise. Color. People moving too fast and laughing too loud.

It’s Ruth shouting my name across the lot even though I’m ten feet away. It’s her looping her arm through mine and dragging me to class with a smile that’s just a little too bright.

“How’s your brain today?” she asks as we walk.

“Functional.”

“Eh, that’s mid. I’ll take it.”

We laugh. I smile. And for five seconds, I almost feel like myself — whatever that means.

But then the hallway swallows us up again, and we split to different classes, and the silence comes back like it missed me.

In English, I sit near the window. Second row. Same seat I’ve had all year.

Outside, the trees are losing their leaves. One by one. Like they’re tired of holding on.

I watch one fall for a full minute, until it hits the ground and disappears into the grass.

Inside, Mrs. Glenn is talking about symbolism. About how sometimes a door is just a door — unless it’s locked.

“Writers don’t always know what they mean,” she says. “They just feel it.”

I wonder if I’m a story being written by someone who forgot what the plot is.

At lunch, I sit with Ruth and pretend I’m listening. She’s talking about cheer practice, about Eric, about how her dad wants her to go to some dinner next week and smile for photos like a good little political accessory.

“You ever feel like you’re being packaged?” she asks.

“Every day,” I say.

She pauses. Looks at me. “You mean that?”

I shrug. I always shrug.

It’s safer than yes. Easier than no.

She frowns, like she wants to ask more. But she doesn’t. Not today.

After school, I walk to the bakery.

It’s warm inside. Smells like cinnamon and peace.

I tie on my apron, nod to the owner, and slip into routine. Fold boxes. Dust counters. Take orders. Smile just enough.

I like it here. Not because I love the job, but because no one asks about my future. No one expects me to explain why I’ve stopped drawing. Why my sketchbook hasn’t moved from the bottom drawer in weeks.

By the time I get home, it’s already dark.

Jason’s door is cracked open. I peek inside.

He’s half-asleep on his chair, headphones lopsided, a game paused on the screen.

There’s a blanket draped over his legs that I didn’t put there, but I wish I had.

“Hey,” I whisper.

He stirs. Grunts. “Yo.”

“You good?”

“Alive.”

That’s our version of checking in. It’s not enough. But it’s something.

Dinner is quiet. Forks against plates. Lisa asking if I want seconds. Dad asking how school is. Jason saying “fine” before I can.

Then Lisa says the thing I’ve been pretending won’t happen.

“The job in Willowridge… they need an answer by Friday.”

Silence. The kind that stretches.

“I haven’t decided,” she adds quickly. “We’re just… still talking.”

I nod. But I don’t say anything.

Because what am I supposed to say? Don’t go? Don’t leave?

Don’t take my only sense of normal away from me?

Instead, I excuse myself and go upstairs.

In my room, I lie on my bed and stare at the ceiling again.

Same crack. Same shadow. Same sense that something is coming and I can’t stop it.

I open my sketchbook, flip past all the drawings of girls on roads and hands holding maps and eyes looking back.

Then I stop on a blank page.

Pick up a pencil.

And stare.

Nothing comes.

Not because I don’t feel anything.

But because I feel everything.

All the time.

And I don’t know where to put it.

I pull out my phone. Scroll through my playlist.

Ed Sheeran. Again.

I let the music fill the space that should be thought.

Let the lyrics say what I can’t.

Let the chorus hold me like no one else has in weeks.

Later, June texts me.

> u alive or just haunting the kitchen again?

I reply:

> little of both.

> want to watch a show tomorrow? i’ll bring snacks.

> only if it’s dumb and involves betrayal.

> deal.

When I finally fall asleep, it’s not peaceful.

It’s that kind of sleep where your body rests, but your mind walks through every memory like it’s a museum.

Every what-if. Every maybe. Every almost.

And somewhere, in all of it, I’m still just trying to figure out which version of myself I’m supposed to be.

The thing about being quiet is that eventually, people stop asking if you’re okay.

They just assume the silence is your personality.

Wednesday starts like most of my days: with a weight in my chest and a song stuck in my head I’m too scared to play out loud.

The halls at school feel louder than usual. Everyone’s moving too fast. Laughing too hard. Like the world’s racing toward something I’m not invited to.

In history, the teacher asks a question. I know the answer. Don’t say it.

Someone else speaks. People nod. Life moves on.

In third period, we’re paired for a project.

I’m assigned to him.

Matt Scott.

Of course.

Of course the universe thinks it’s hilarious.

He turns toward me, notebook in hand, pen tapping against it like a nervous tic. His eyes flick to mine for one second — just one — and then he looks back down.

“Topic?” he says, voice low.

“Anything but war,” I manage.

He nods. “Greek mythology?”

I blink. “Yeah. Sure.”

That’s it. Our first real words. And I think I might actually pass out.

Not because of what he said.

But because for a moment, he looked at me.

Not past me. Not around me.

At me.

The rest of the day drags like a sentence I didn’t write.

In the bathroom between classes, I stare at myself in the mirror. I look tired. Pale. Like someone who’s slowly disappearing but doing it politely.

“Raven,” someone says behind me.

I jump.

It’s Ruth. She leans against the sink beside mine, arms crossed, watching me.

“You haven’t been in the cafeteria all week,” she says.

“Wasn’t hungry.”

She frowns. “I saved you a seat.”

“I know.”

A beat of silence.

“You’re slipping,” she says softly. “I can feel it.”

My throat tightens. I want to say I know. I want to say I don’t mean to.

But instead I just shrug.

Ruth lets out a breath, pushes a candy bar into my hand, and leaves.

I stare at the wrapper.

Don’t eat it.

Don’t throw it away.

Just put it in my pocket and carry it like guilt.

After school, I go to work at the bakery.

The air smells like sugar and stories I’ll never write.

Mrs. Delaney asks if I’m okay. I nod.

She gives me an extra cookie at the end of my shift. I leave it on the counter for someone else.

At home, Jason is playing his game again.

Dad’s in the garage.

Lisa’s sitting at the table, paperwork spread out in front of her.

I can see the move in her face. She’s already halfway packed in her mind.

“I got a follow-up from Willowridge today,” she says as I pass. “They’re offering more.”

I freeze.

More.

More what? Money? Distance? Pain?

“I’ll be upstairs,” I say.

No one stops me.

In my room, I draw.

A girl again.

This time, she’s halfway through a door. Light behind her. Darkness ahead. Her fingers grip the edge like she hasn’t decided yet.

Maybe she never will.

Later that night, I lie in bed and replay Matt’s voice in my head.

Greek mythology.

That’s what he said.

That’s the first thing he said to me.

And it’s so painfully ordinary that it almost makes me cry.

Because even something that small feels like it mattered.

And I can’t decide if that’s sad or romantic or both.

The next morning, I wake up with the ache still in my bones.

Check my phone.

Nothing.

Scroll.

Still nothing.

Life moves on without me.

Maybe I let it.

Maybe that’s what I wanted.

At school, Matt passes me in the hallway. Doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t look at me.

But he slows for a second. Just a second.

And that’s enough to ruin me.

Because almost is worse than never.

Almost means I was close.

Almost means I don’t get to let go.