Chapter 2

The gate groaned as Clara pushed it open, metal grinding like an old man’s sigh. The house beyond stood in its usual neatness: the freshly swept front steps, flowerpots lined with obedient petunias, the faint lemon scent Mira liked to spray in the evenings to “welcome Dominic home properly.” To the neighbors, it looked like a house where harmony lived.

Clara knew better.

Inside, the silence pressed down, broken only by the rhythmic ticking of the clock above the dining table. The television muttered faintly from the living room. Clara slipped off her shoes and lined them against the wall, careful not to scrape the floor.

“You’re fucking late again.”

The voice drifted from the kitchen, melodic but sharp. Mira emerged, drying her manicured hands with a towel, lips painted in a perfect crimson smile. She never raised her voice; she didn’t need to. Her words cut without volume.

“I was at the fucking library,” Clara murmured. A lie rolled out automatically, smooth from practice.

Mira tilted her head, studying her like a pinned insect. “The library,” she repeated, amused. “Funny how you never bring home a single book.”

Clara kept her gaze on the floorboards. Arguing was dangerous; silence was safer.

At the dining table, Francis hunched over his homework, pencil scratching furiously as though he could stab holes through the paper. John tapped his pen in uneven bursts, eyes flicking nervously between Mira and Clara. For a second, pity sparked in their gazes—but like always, it burned out quickly. They bent lower over their books, cowards retreating into ink and paper.

“Clara.”

Her father’s voice floated from the living room. Dominic sat slouched on the sofa, eyes glued to the television where a black-and-white hero was declaring eternal love to a woman in pearls. “You’re back,” he said, not unkindly, but not warmly either. His eyes flicked over her once, then returned to the screen. “Dinner’s ready?”

“It will be,” Mira said smoothly, already turning her back.

Dinner was a ritual, precise as clockwork. Mira filled the plates, smiled her brittle smile, and laced her words with tiny poisons.

“You hardly eat,” she told Clara, serving her a portion barely larger than a child’s. “It’s no wonder you look like a ghost.”

“You should sit straighter,” she added moments later. “Hunching makes you look weak.”

Between Mira’s remarks, Dominic chuckled absently at the television, laughing at a joke nobody in the room heard. Francis and John shoveled food quickly, as though speed could make them invisible. Clara chewed in silence, staring at her plate until her stomach twisted.

When the meal ended, Mira laid her napkin down with a satisfied sigh. “Clara, dishes.”

Of course. Always Clara.

Her hands moved through soap and water, scrubbing until her fingers pruned. The others disappeared one by one: Dominic to his armchair, Mira to her phone call, Francis and John upstairs to their room. The clatter of Mira’s laughter on the phone echoed faintly, as though even joy in this house was sharpened.

At last, Clara dried her hands, grabbed her phone, and slipped away.

The rooftop was her escape, a place where the air didn’t smell like lemon polish or simmer with tension. She climbed the narrow stairs, pushed the window open, and stepped into the cool night. The city sprawled below, speckled with lights like fallen stars. Above her, the real stars burned—tiny, untouchable flames.

She lay back against the rough concrete, phone clutched to her chest. After a moment, she unlocked it.

One new message waited.

"Still awake?"

Her lips twitched despite the day. Lana.

Clara typed quickly: "Yeah. Roof."

The reply came almost instantly. Figures. You and your stars. One day I’ll climb up there and drag you down just to annoy you.

Clara almost smiled. That was Lana—bright, restless, alive with words. Even when she teased, warmth threaded through. Clara’s thumbs hovered over the keyboard before she typed:

"You wouldn’t survive without me."

Seconds later: "Same."

That single word glowed on the screen. Small. Plain. But it lodged in Clara’s chest like a secret heartbeat.

She set the phone down beside her, eyes drifting shut. The rooftop hummed with silence, but in her hand lay proof of something that tethered her here.

She told herself, as always: "That's my best friend."

Downstairs, Mira’s laughter rose sharp against Dominic’s low murmur. Francis and John whispered in their room, voices anxious. The house was full of noise, yet empty of comfort.

Only here, under the stars, with Lana’s name glowing in her palm, did Clara feel alive.

She opened her eyes and stared at the night sky, whispering to no one:

“Don’t leave me.”



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