I don't want to talk today.
Not about the fight with Mom. Not about the low-level ache I woke up with in my chest. Not about the teacher who raised her eyebrow when I asked for an extension or the girl in the hallway who whispered "charity case" under her breath like I couldn't hear her.
Words feel too heavy. Like every syllable might shatter if I try to lift it.
So I don't bring them.
Instead, I bring my phone.
Under the stairs, Luca's already there. He sits cross-legged, tie half-untied, a smudge of pencil on his jaw like he forgot it was there. His sketchbook rests on one knee, but he's not drawing. He's just... waiting.
He looks up when I drop beside him, quiet as a thought. "Hey."
"Hey," I whisper back.
I scroll past a hundred notes I'll never send, a half-written poem titled Don't Touch My Silence, and open the playlist.
It's called therapy session in lowercase. The cover photo is a blurry shot of the sky through my bedroom window. Some tracks are loud. Some soft. All of them feel like the inside of my ribcage.
I don't say what it is.
I just pass him one of my earbuds.
He doesn't ask.
He puts it in.
And presses play.
We sit like that - side by side in our hidden little corner of the world, music passing between us like breath.
Track one: a stripped-down version of a girl singing about grief.
Track two: the one with the pulsing synths that feels like running through rain in slow motion.
Track three: just piano and wind and something aching.
I don't look at him.
But I feel him.
Still. Present. Listening like it matters.
And for once, I don't need to explain anything.
When the fifth song ends, he gently unplugs the earbud.
He turns to me and holds out his hand.
I blink. "What?"
"Phone," he says softly. "Can I have your number? You don't have to use it. I just... want it."
I hesitate. Not because I don't want to give it - I do. But because giving him a direct line into my life feels like handing someone the master key to the house I've spent years building brick by guarded brick.
But something in me - something tired of hiding - moves first.
I hand him my phone.
He adds his name. Just "Luca." No emojis. No punctuation. Just... Luca.
He hands it back. "Send me that playlist later."
I nod. "Okay."
He smiles, small and warm. "Thanks for trusting me with the quiet."
And somehow, that makes my throat tighten more than anything else has all week.
Later that evening, I'm home.
Bear and Auggie are already in their after-school chaos mode - which basically means the living room is a war zone. There's cereal on the couch. LEGO bricks on the stairs. Auggie has a sock on his head and is trying to convince Bear he's a mind reader.
I toss my bag on the chair and dive into the mess like I've been waiting to all day.
"Sennyyyy!" Bear yells as I tackle him from behind.
"You dare challenge the Queen?" I declare in my best villain voice.
"You're not a queen!" Auggie shrieks, jumping on my back. "You're a soggy raisin!"
"Take it back!" I spin around in circles until we all collapse in a tangled heap on the carpet, breathless and laughing.
In that moment, I forget the weight of my mother's silence.
I forget the looks.
The pressure.
The ache.
I just remember what it feels like to be wanted. Loved. Free.
When I finally catch my breath, I sneak into the kitchen and send the playlist to Luca. No caption. No context.
A few minutes later, a text appears:
Luca:
Track 4? That one broke me. In the best way.
Thank you.
Also... your taste is immaculate.
I stare at the message for a long time.
And for once, I don't overthink it.
I just smile.