HURT ME

CHAPTER 1

The morning always felt heavier in our house.

Not because of the sunlight slipping through the curtains, but because of the way silence clung to every corner like it belonged there more than we did. I woke up earlier than everyone else, like I always do, because I’ve learned that peace is easier to find when nobody is awake yet to break it.

I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at my phone, pretending there was something important waiting for me there. There wasn’t. Just messages I hadn’t replied to and a world that didn’t care if I got up or stayed still.

“Larrah!”

Mama’s voice came from the kitchen, sharp enough to cut through the walls. I stood up immediately. In our house, delay was disrespect.

“Yes, Ma,” I answered, stepping into the hallway.

The smell of coffee was already strong, but it didn’t feel comforting. Mama was at the table, her eyes already judging before I even said anything.

“Why are you still like that? You have class,” she said, not looking at me directly.

“I’m ready, Ma.”

She finally looked up. That look. The one that always made me feel like I was never enough, no matter what I did.

“Then act like it.”

I nodded even if my chest felt tight. I didn’t argue. I never did. Not because I agreed, but because I learned that silence hurts less than words that bounce back as something worse.

I grabbed my bag and left without finishing breakfast.

Outside, the air felt different. Lighter. Like I could breathe again, even just for a few seconds. I walked toward school with my headphones in, even if no music was playing. It helped me pretend I was somewhere else.

That’s when I saw him.

He was leaning against the gate like he owned the space around him. Black hair slightly messy, uniform sleeves rolled up like he didn’t care about rules. But what caught me wasn’t his appearance—it was the way people looked at him. Like they already knew his name mattered.

Cidian De Luca.

I had heard it before. Everyone had.

He noticed me before I noticed I was staring too long. His eyes met mine, and for a second, I forgot how to look away properly.

“New transferee?” he asked when I passed by.

I stopped, surprised he even spoke to me.

“No,” I said quietly. “I’ve been here.”

He tilted his head slightly, like he was studying something he couldn’t figure out. Then he smirked—not mocking, but almost curious.

“Then why do you look like you don’t belong here?”

The question hit harder than I expected. I should’ve walked away. I should’ve ignored him like I do everyone else.

But instead, I said, “Maybe I don’t.”

For a moment, he didn’t respond. The noise around us faded like the world paused just to listen.

Then the bell rang.

He straightened up and gav e a small nod. “See you around, Larrah Araneta.”

My name sounded different coming from him.

And I hated how much I noticed that.

As I walked away, I realized something I didn’t want to admit.

That meeting him didn’t feel like an accident.

It felt like the beginning of something I wasn’t ready to survive.