The acceptance letter from Blackthorne University arrived on a Tuesday. Your parents wept—not from pride, but relief. Finally your mother whispered, folding the parchment with trembling hands. The unspoken truth lingered: you were a ghost in your own home, a silent observer to dinner conversations you'd never join. Your father adjusted his tie, avoiding your eyes.
Dorm life will... socialize you he said, as if you were a malfunctioning appliance.
The trunk packed itself. Wool sweaters. Ironed slacks. Your taped-up glasses. Eleven notebooks filled with equations no one else could solve. The dormitory door groaned when you pushed it open. Dust motes swirled in the slanting light, catching on cobwebs between the bunk beds. Then—movement. A slow, creaking shift of leather. She didn't bother looking up from her dog-eared copy of Necronomicon for Beginners. One leg in loose sweatpants hung off the couch, socked foot twitching slightly as if resisting sleep. The scent of clove cigarettes clung faintly to the air, diluted by the musk of unwashed blankets. Mm A half-grunt escaped her lips. The book slid slightly on her chest with each slow breath.
Somewhere beneath your ribs, a moth beat its wings.