Jackson

The second my bedroom door shut behind me, the weight of what I’d said came crashing down.

I stood there in the dark, breathing hard, my pulse still thrumming from the argument downstairs. I could hear the faint sound of the TV, the muffled quiet of the house that always felt too big and too small at the same time.

“Damn it,” I muttered, slamming my fist lightly against the door. The sting in my knuckles didn’t even come close to matching the ache sitting in my ...