Chapter 66: "Glass House"
The car ride home was silent.
Zariah stared out the window, the city blurred by a drizzle of rain. Jasmine sat beside her in the backseat, their pinkies barely brushing. Her mom gripped the steering wheel tightly, as if holding onto it was the only way to keep from falling apart.
The world outside moved on — buses honked, people bustled across streets — but Zariah felt stuck, like she was watching life through bulletproof glass. Present but untouchable.
Unreachable.
The house hadn't changed. Same peeling paint on the porch railing, same crooked wind chime tapping gently in the breeze.
But something inside Zariah had changed.
And she wasn't sure if it was fixable.
Her room looked the same too.
But her blades were gone.
Every drawer had been emptied, her closet searched, her desk scrubbed clean. Her mom hadn't said anything, but the message was clear.
You're being watched now.
Zariah sat on the edge of her bed, fingers digging into the blanket.
"I'll stay for a little while," Jasmine said softly, standing in the doorway. "Just to make sure you're okay."
Zariah nodded, unable to speak. Her voice had disappeared somewhere between the hospital bed and the front door.
The walls of her room felt too close, the air too thick. She couldn't breathe.
That night, her mom cooked dinner.
Zariah stared at her plate. Chicken, rice, and callaloo. Familiar food. Comfort food.
But she couldn't eat.
Every bite felt like betrayal. Like forcing something into a body that didn't want to stay alive.
She pushed the food around her plate until Jasmine reached under the table and squeezed her knee.
"Try," she whispered. "Just a bite."
Zariah took one.
Then another.
She didn't throw up this time — but she wanted to.
She excused herself early and locked the bathroom door behind her.
She didn't cry that night.
Not even when Jasmine finally left.
Not even when her mom kissed her forehead too long, too hard, before whispering, "I love you," and quietly closing her bedroom door.
Zariah lay in bed, staring at the ceiling. The silence was different now — heavy, sharp, full of things unspoken.
There was no more hiding.
But being seen didn't make her feel safer.
It made her feel exposed.
Like living in a house made of glass — where everyone could look in, but no one could truly understand what it felt like to be her.
She didn't cut that night.
But not because she didn't want to.
Because there was nothing left to use.
And for the first time in a long time, she didn't know what to do with the pain.
So she held it in her chest like fire.
Burning, but silent.