Chapter 5 Where Silence Should Be

Bryan's POV

Home was supposed to be quiet.

But mine never was.

The second I stepped through the front door, I was greeted by the sharp clash of voices not music, not laughter, just another shouting match bouncing off the walls like ghosts that refused to leave.

My dad's voice, low and venomous. My mom's, tired and cracking, like a record that had been played too many times.

I didn't care to listen to the words anymore. They never changed.

I closed the door quietly behind me, not because I cared if they noticed, but because I hated giving them the satisfaction of knowing I was home. My feet moved on instinct, heading for the stairs straight to the one place that still belonged to me.

My room.

The moment I shut the door behind me, I locked it. Automatically. Always.

It wasn't safety. Not really. But it was silence.

I dropped my bag on the floor, peeled off my jacket, and stared at the ceiling like it might give me answers it never had before. My phone buzzed in my pocket. Messages. Probably Zalia. I ignored them.

The silence inside the room was different than the silence inside me.

This silence didn't hurt.

I lay on the bed, arms folded behind my head, staring at the flickering paint on the ceiling. There were cracks in it now thin, hairline fractures that had crept in over time.

Like me.

People always thought I had it easy. Rich parents, pretty face, endless parties, and a line of girls who'd kill for five minutes of my attention.

But no one ever asked why I needed the noise.

Why I needed the attention.

Why I couldn't sleep without music on, even when I was dead tired.

Because silence reminded me that nothing in my life was real.

Not the laughter at school. Not the smiles from teachers. Not the girls.

Especially not the girls.

Zalia was just the loudest voice in a long list of distractions. She didn't love me. She didn't even like me. She liked being seen with me. Liked the social currency that came with it.

And I let her. Because it was easier than being alone.

I closed my eyes and let the chaos downstairs fade into a low, useless hum.

For a second, I imagined something different.

A room that stayed quiet. A voice soft, real not asking anything from me. A world where I didn't have to be Bryan Carter, the playboy, the bully, the joke everyone laughed with but never looked into.

I thought of her.

Blair Monroe.

Quiet. Sharp. Honest.

I didn't know why I kept thinking about her. Maybe because when she looked at me, she didn't see what everyone else saw. She didn't flinch. She didn't fall for the act.

She made me feel like I wasn't a show.

And I hated how much I wanted to feel that again.