I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the floor like it might offer some kind of answer.
My room looked like something out of a catalog—dark wood floors, navy walls, an absurdly expensive desk I barely touched, a bed with pillows that looked better than they felt. A marble shelf held trophies I didn't remember earning. The closet? Walk-in, color-coded, filled with designer clothes I didn't ask for. You could call it luxury. I called it decoration.
Every detail screamed control. Taste. Perfection.
But none of it was mine.
My fingers tightened around the edge of the mattress. Sometimes I imagined taking everything out—dumping the shelves, scattering the trophies, pulling down the expensive curtains. Just to see what the room would feel like without all the layers that weren't me.
Then came the voices. Dull at first—muffled through the thick walls—but they sharpened fast.
"I told you we need to handle the investors—""You think you can just keep throwing money at everything and fix it?""Oh, and you're the picture of sacrifice?"
I closed my eyes and let out a groan.
Fighting again.
Always fighting.
It used to scare me. Now? It just made me tired. They fought about everything—money, control, appearances. Not once had they argued for me. Just over me. Like I was another investment that hadn't delivered.
My dad wanted me to be sharp, obedient, an image. He dressed me up in suits and smiled through his teeth at board dinners. My mom wanted me to be exceptional. Flawless grades, polished manners, polished shoes. My voice didn't matter. It never had.
A part of me started tuning them out a long time ago. But tonight, it sank in deeper. I could have everything and still feel empty. The silence between their shouts always said more than the yelling did.
I pulled my hoodie over my head and leaned back onto the bed. This place wasn't home. It was just where I slept.
I thought about Ermelinda. About her tired voice on the phone. About how even when her day was brutal, she still laughed. Still fought. She had more realness in one shift behind that counter than this house had in a lifetime.
She worked harder than anyone I knew. And she didn't even tell me why.
My phone buzzed.
It was still just a blank screen. No reply.
I opened our thread and typed anyway.
ELIAS
You asleep or still fighting espresso machines in your dreams?
The muffled voices kept rising down the hall, but in that moment, I only cared about one voice: hers.