Page 12 of All the Things We Buried

ELEVEN

LENORE

H e had started seeing Sophie. I heard them at night.

She’s eighteen now. And I’m still the one he will never look at twice.

And it hurts. It hurts to see them together. Hurts that, out of all people, he chose her. And out of all the people I could have chosen, out of every person I ever wanted, there was only one. It had to be him.

And he chose to hurt me.

The worst part is I know he’s doing it on purpose. He thinks if I see him with someone else, maybe I’ll let go. Maybe I’ll stop feeling whatever this is. This crush. This sickness.

But it’s too late.

Because once someone gets under your skin, once they slip inside your chest and curl around your heart, it’s already done.

There’s no pulling them out. No undoing it.

He lives in me now. Like something hungry.

A parasite feeding on every emotion I have left.

I exist just to keep him alive. And he doesn’t care that it’s killing me.

He doesn’t care that every second I breathe for him hurts more than the last.

Around midnight, I heard her giggle. That soft, syrupy sound that crawled under my skin.

I heard her whispering to him, telling him how much she liked him.

Telling him things she pretended to hate in front of me.

She always acted like he annoyed her, like she couldn’t stand him, but it was all an act. A show just for me. So I wouldn’t know.

But I did.

And that’s the worst kind of pain, having to pretend you’re blind just to see how fake people really are.

But I wasn’t blind. I saw everything. I heard everything.

And I still chose to stay invisible.

Unnoticed. Silent. Alone.

I sat at the end of the staircase, clutching the doll with blonde hair. I found it when we first moved in. Something about it always calmed me down. It reminded me of a girl I used to dream about. A quiet girl with glassy blue eyes.

I looked at the doll. Her eyes were blue.

I blinked. They moved.

I froze. My breath hitched.

I blinked again. The eyes shifted. Following me.

I screamed.

The doll slipped from my hands and hit the floor. The porcelain cracked across her cheek like a broken smile.

Heavy footsteps pounded from above.

Dorian came down from the attic, eyes on me. He didn’t say anything at first. Just stared like he couldn’t quite place what was happening.

Is this what it takes to get his attention? Screaming? Because I would scream until my throat bled if it meant he’d finally see me.

“You good?” he asked, nodding slightly.

I trembled as I stared at the doll, then gave a small nod.

He didn’t even look back. He just turned around and walked upstairs like none of it mattered.

But I wasn’t okay.

I needed him to hold me. I needed him to say it would be all right.

But I guess that was just a fantasy.

I rushed down the stairs, careful not to look at the doll whose eyes seemed to follow every step I took. I ran to the piano and sat down, trying to play Für Elise . My fingers moved over the keys, pressing down, but no sound came. The piano was silent, muted.

Still, I kept playing. Not for music.

But for him to hear me.

Because I couldn’t scream anymore.

Vivian appeared behind me, holding a cup of tea in her hand. She didn’t say anything at first. She just waited.

So I took it.

I brought the cup to my lips and let the heat burn my throat on the way down without a flinch.

“Time for bed,” she said softly, reaching for my hand. “Momma’s gonna take care of you now.”

She led me toward the bedroom. On the way, she picked up the doll. This time, the eyes didn’t move. They stared blankly ahead, like nothing had happened.

Maybe the tea was helping.

Maybe she was.

The bedroom door opened as she guided me inside.

My room.

I lay down in bed, and she tucked the blanket over me. Then she placed the doll beside me on the pillow.

My body was growing heavy.

I couldn’t move my arms, couldn’t turn to my side. A strange numbness spread through my limbs.

My eyes stayed wide open, fixed on the ceiling.

My lips tingled, then went completely numb. I couldn’t speak. I pressed them together, trying to form a word, any word, but nothing came out.

She leaned down and kissed my forehead.

“Just like a good little doll,” she whispered. “Tea is always the solution. It will cure your mind.”

Then she stood and walked toward the door, leaving me like this.

Paralyzed and silent.

And once again, he wasn’t there to save me.

I blinked twice, slowly looking around. It felt like someone was sitting on my legs, pressing down harder with every breath. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t scream. I couldn’t do anything.

I was completely numb.

Tears slid from the corners of my eyes, running down toward my temples. My eyes blurred as I tried to close my eyes, but before I did, I saw her.

The wet lady.

Water dripped from her tangled hair, each cold drop landing on my face as she hovered above me. I couldn’t make out her features, just the outline of her, just her presence.

I wanted to scream, but no sound came. All of it stayed locked inside me, pounding against my chest like fists on a sealed coffin.

I shut my eyes tight.

I didn’t want to see her again. I knew if I looked, she would be closer. She would reach for me. And maybe she should. Maybe it would be better if she did. Better if I weren’t even here.

Her hair brushed against my skin, damp strands trailing down my cheeks.

Then I heard footsteps.

The bed shifted beside me.

Someone lay down next to me, and an arm wrapped around my waist, pulling me close.

“I got you, Trouble,” he said softly, letting my head fall against his chest.

He came for me.

Was this real?

He held me tighter, one hand cupping the back of my head, fingers weaving into my hair. His chest rose and fell under my cheek. I felt safe.

“I won’t let them hurt you again,” he whispered into my forehead.

Another promise. Another lie waiting to happen.

Because I wasn’t safe in this house. I never would be.

But in his arms, I felt like I could breathe again. In his arms, I felt like I existed. Like maybe I was still human. Still something.

His arms were home in a house that never could be.

Morning light slipped through the blinds and fell across my face. I blinked against it, and when I moved my hands, they found their way to his chest.

He was still here. Still holding me.

This was wrong. So wrong.

I opened my eyes. His eyes were already open, watching me.

“Sleep, Trouble,” he murmured, pulling me closer.

But I didn’t want to sleep. What he didn’t know was that I wanted to be awake for every second he was near. I only ever wanted to sleep when he was gone. Because in dreams, he was always there. And now, with him beside me, sleep felt pointless. He was the dream. And I was wide awake inside it.

“I’m okay,” I whispered.

“You need rest,” he said quietly. “As your older brother, I have to make sure you’re really okay.”

“Stepbrother,” I corrected, brushing my throat before leaning up and resting against his chest. “Aren’t you supposed to be at Sophie’s?”

“Don’t ruin a good morning, Trouble,” he said, rolling his eyes.

“Ooh,” I grinned, “trouble in paradise?”

He smiled. “Not everything is what it looks like.”

“I thought you were in love,” I said, making air quotes with my fingers.

“She’s got a stupid crush. I just went along with it,” he said, his eyes finding mine. Then he reached for a strand of my hair and rolled it between his fingers.

“Just went with it?” I laughed nervously. “So you don’t care?” I hesitated. “About her?”

“I don’t care about anyone, Trouble,” he said, sitting up.

“Not even me?” I asked, my voice catching.

He looked at me and laughed, light but sharp. “You’re cute.”

“Answer me,” I said, punching him in the chest.

“What kind of answer do you want?” He raised a brow. “Because whatever truth you’re looking for isn’t the one you want to hear.”

I sat up straighter, planting my hands on my thighs, staring at him. “Why are you doing this?”

He just laughed.

“Dorian,” I said softly, “do you care about me?”

“Is that really what you want to know?” His voice dropped, quiet but sharp. “Or is there something else you’re afraid to ask?”

“What else could there be?”

He stood up without answering. His eyes never left mine. Then he stepped close, placed a hand on my cheek, and dragged his thumb slowly across my bottom lip.

“Maybe…”

“Maybe what?”

But he only let out a soft chuckle and turned toward the door.

“Dorian, what?” I got to my feet, watching him. “Why are you doing this to me?” My voice cracked into a whisper as the door creaked open.

He slammed it shut again.

Then he spun back around and rushed toward me. I stumbled backward, heart racing, until my legs hit the edge of the bed frame.

“You think I don’t know what I’m doing to you?” he asked.

I swallowed hard as his face hovered inches above mine. I could feel his warm breath brushing against my lips.

“I know,” he said, and I could almost taste his words. “And I enjoy every second of it.”

I pressed my hand against his chest and pushed him back, just enough to breathe.

“Since you know what you’re doing to me,” I said, steady but shaking inside, “then enjoy it somewhere else.”

He chuckled, low and smug.

“You’re such an asshole,” I muttered, pointing at the door. “Get out.”

Instead, he stepped closer. His fingers brushed my waist as he leaned in, inhaling slowly at the curve of my neck, his nose skimming through my hair.

He smiled.

Then he left without a word, closing the door behind him.

I collapsed onto the bed, the truth of what he had done sinking into my bones like cold water.

They say actions speak louder than words. But what happens when neither person knows how to speak at all? One of us always overthinking, the other unable to express anything. Maybe this was never meant to be anything more than silence between us.

They say overthinkers love the hardest, because we notice everything. We analyze every glance, every pause, every breath. We fall before we realize we’ve jumped. We love people before they even know they’ve been seen.

But the truth is, we also hurt the most. Because we already know the ending before the story even begins. Overthinking is just preparing for the worst. So when the worst finally happens, we can tell ourselves we were ready for it.

Only, I wasn’t ready for Dorian.

Not a ghost. Not this house. Not the years I spent building walls thick enough to survive anyone.

Because with just one word, with one touch, he tore it all down, and I collapsed.