Simon Reyes
Tuesday, 6:33pm, September 10, 2025
Sometimes, silence is a choice.
And sometimes, it's the only thing left after the yelling stops.
I didn't mean to break the mug. I was just washing it—my hands slippery with soap, the sound of the news blaring from the living room. It slipped. Shattered. One clean crack.
It should've been nothing.
But nothing becomes something fast in my house.
I didn't even see the swing coming—just felt it. My dad's hand, heavy and sharp across my cheek. A flash of pain, and then heat, shame, breath caught halfway in my throat.
I didn't say anything. Not a word. I just stood there while the pieces of ceramic glinted like broken teeth in the sink.
"You always ruin everything," he muttered, not even looking at me anymore.
I grabbed my sketchbook and my hoodie and ran. Out the door. Down the street. Barefoot.
Oakridge looked like it always did—quiet, pretending. Neighbors mowing lawns. Porch lights flicking on like fake stars.
No one noticed the boy walking down the street with a red mark blooming on his cheek and a heart that felt hollowed out.
I didn't know where I was going until I got there.
The old playground behind the library. Rusty swings. Wood chips that got stuck in your shoes. Elijah and I used to come here in middle school. Back when things were simpler. Back when I believed in best friends and birthday promises.
I sat on the same swing I always did. My sketchbook rested on my lap, but I couldn't draw.
My hands were shaking too much.
So I just stared at the paper, trying to remember how to breathe like a normal person.
And that's when I saw a message pop up on my phone.
Elijah: "Still on for Wednesday?"
I didn't answer. Not yet.
I just looked at those words—simple, harmless. But they felt heavy. Too heavy. Like everything was closing in around us and we were pretending not to notice.
I wanted to believe that Wednesday would fix things.
That being together—just the six of us—would remind us who we used to be. Before lies. Before secrets. Before bruises you had to hide under sleeves.
But people don't come back the same after they've broken.
They just learn to wear prettier masks.
I stayed on that swing until the sky turned violet. Until my hands stopped shaking and the numbness crept in where the pain used to be.
Then I walked. No destination, no plan. Just the kind of aimless movement that felt like survival.
I kept my hoodie up. Head down. I didn't want anyone to see my face. Especially not the bruise forming on my cheek.
It was stupid to be out this late, but I didn't care. I couldn't go home. Not yet.
That's when I saw her.
Maddie.
She was coming out of the gas station by the highway, holding a bottle of Gatorade and a bag of Sour Patch Kids. Her team jacket was slung over her shoulder, and her hair was damp—maybe from practice, maybe from a shower. I wasn't sure.
We almost passed each other without speaking.
But she stopped.
"Simon?" she asked, blinking. "What are you doing out here?"
I froze.
Of all people.
I liked Maddie. We weren't close exactly, but there was something about her—quiet strength, like she was always holding back a storm. I saw that in myself too.
"I was just walking," I muttered, eyes on the sidewalk.
She stepped closer, her brow furrowing.
"Your face," she said, voice lower now. "What happened?"
I flinched, barely shaking my head. "It's nothing."
"That doesn't look like nothing."
I didn't answer.
She hesitated, then reached into the bag and handed me the Gatorade. "Here. You look like you need it more than I do."
I took it slowly. Our fingers brushed.
"I wasn't gonna go," I said suddenly.
She looked confused. "Go where?"
"Wednesday. With everyone. I figured it'd be...weird."
Maddie nodded slowly, then surprised me by saying, "Yeah. I get that. But maybe we should."
"Why?"
She looked away, chewing her lip. "Because if we don't, it's all gonna fall apart. And I think—I think Elijah's trying to fix something."
I looked at her for a long time. "You think he can?"
She didn't answer right away. Just kicked at a rock on the sidewalk.
"I don't know," she whispered. "But I think he's scared. Just like the rest of us."
I didn't know what to say. So I just stood there, holding a bottle of Gatorade and trying not to cry.
She stepped forward again and gently touched the side of my arm.
"If you need somewhere to crash tonight," she said softly, "my mom's working late. No questions asked."
I nodded.
And for that day, I didn't feel like I was alone.