Blair Maddox, Age 12
It was a week later.
I still smelled like smoke. My clothes too. I didn't care.
Mom hadn't asked why the ashtray was empty. She probably didn't remember there ever was one.
I was outside the gas station, sitting on the curb with my legs pulled up to my chest, pretending I was invisible. I liked watching people more than talking to them. Watching gave you time to guess their damage. Most people didn't hide it well.
That's when I saw him.
He stepped out of the car with a stack of books in his hands, glasses sliding down his nose, his hoodie a size too big like it was swallowing him. Hair messy but clean. The kind of clean that comes from moms who make you shower and brush your teeth twice a day. The kind of clean I hadn't seen in years.
He was with them—his parents.
His mom had one hand on his shoulder and a grocery bag in the other. She was smiling at him like he was made of gold. Not the kind of smile you fake. The kind that glows.
His dad grabbed the rest of the bags from the trunk and joked about something. They all laughed. Laughed like they hadn't fallen apart. Like nobody had ever yelled so loud it cracked picture frames. Like the word divorce had never sat at their dinner table like a guest.
I watched them from behind my curtain of hair, the end of a cigarette still between my fingers. Ash falling. My fingers twitching to hide it.
He didn't see me.
Atlas Reed didn't even glance in my direction.
But I saw everything.
The safety. The softness. The air around him didn't feel like smoke and broken glass.
It felt like something I'd never had.
It made my lungs ache.
He looked like the kind of boy whose backpack had matching folders. Who did his homework with two highlighters and a snack from home. Who had a curfew because someone cared if he didn't come back.
I looked down at the cigarette in my hand.
And I hated him.
I hated him because he had what I wanted.
And I hated me more—because I knew I'd never get it.