Chapter 22: Silence and Reflection

I sit alone in my room, perched on the edge of my bed, elbows resting on my knees, fingers tangled in my hair. The silence around me is heavy, suffocating, like every little noise in the house only amplifies the tension choking me from the inside.

My mind keeps replaying what happened with Emma. Her tear-streaked face, her screams, her words—each one stabbing deeper every time they echo in my head. You’re disgusting ... A fucking monster ... They loop over and over, and that knot in my stomach tightens again, that nausea that just won’t go away.

How the hell did I get here? How did I manage to fuck everything up this badly?

I straighten up slightly, staring at the floor, fists clenched. My thoughts keep circling back to the same question—What now? What is she going to do?

I can’t stop thinking that she might tell our parents. The mere idea sends a chill through me. Their reaction, the shock, the shame ... But no. I force myself to breathe. Emma wouldn’t do that. Not because I deserve to be spared, but because this has gone too far—too deep. She wouldn’t want to expose it.

I exhale slowly, trying to convince myself, but the anxiety won’t let go. My eyes drift toward my phone, sitting on my desk. A part of me wants to check—open the app, see if she tried to say something—even though I know it’s impossible after what I did. But I don’t dare.

I stand, taking a few steps around the room, but my legs feel heavy, weighed down by guilt. I sink back onto the bed, burying my head in my hands.

The silence around me becomes almost unbearable. I strain my ears, hoping to hear something—anything, some sign of life in the house. But everything is still. Too still.

I close my eyes for a moment, but the images rush back instantly—Emma screaming, Emma crying, Emma falling apart. I snap my eyes open, as if I can escape my own thoughts, but they’re still there, choking me a little more with every second.

The days that follow are pure hell. The house—once filled with Emma’s laughter and endless chatter—is now suffocating under a crushing, icy tension. Every room carries the weight of what happened between us, and every moment is a silent torture.

Emma avoids me. It’s not even subtle. If she hears my footsteps in the hallway, she vanishes—closing her door or slipping into another room. If we run into each other by accident, she drops her gaze, quickens her pace, and disappears before I can say a word.

Mealtimes are worse.

We sit at the table, just like always, but she doesn’t speak. Not a single word. She answers our parents’ questions with short, mechanical replies, never once looking at me. And I do the same—eyes locked on my plate, hands shaking every time I pick up my fork.

Our parents notice, obviously.

Mom: “You two are awfully quiet ... Did you have a fight?” Emma barely lifts her head, pushing her food around her plate, her fingers fidgeting restlessly.

Emma: “No. Nothing. Everything’s fine.” Her voice is flat, emotionless, and Mom hesitates before dropping it.

Another time, Dad speaks up.

Dad: “Brice, you seem distracted too. Everything okay?” I mumble something vague.

Me: “Uh ... yeah.” But no one buys it. The silence that follows is deafening, and I feel Emma tense up even more.

Every interaction is a brutal reminder of what happened. Every silence is heavy with everything we’re not saying.

One afternoon, as I’m tidying up my room, I hear her door creak open. Emma steps out, her footsteps soft against the hallway floor.

I freeze, hoping she won’t notice me.

But our eyes meet.

She stops for a brief second, caught off guard. Her eyes darken instantly, and the pain I see in them knocks the air out of my lungs. She stares at me—a mix of anger and heartbreak—before quickly looking away.

Emma: “Move.” Her voice is low, almost shaky, but sharp as a blade.

I step back to give her space, but she’s gone before I can even take a breath. I just stand there, heart pounding, throat dry. This could have been a chance to talk to her. But I didn’t do a damn thing. I didn’t even try.

These kinds of interactions—if you can even call them that—have become the new normal. She gives me nothing. No opening, no chance to explain.