Revilsa

  I sit at the end of the table, lost in the blur of voices, the ctter of forks against chipped ptes. Laughter rises, easy and careless, filling the spaces between mouthfuls of food.

  Across from me, Zett eats quietly, his head slightly down, his eyes somewhere far away.

  Once, he noticed me.

  Once, he pyed with me.

  But that was a long time ago.

  Now, he’s gone. Not lost like a child, not missing like someone taken—just gone.

  I stare at my pte, appetite numb, my fork idly smearing mashed potatoes into nothing.

  A scrape of metal against ceramic. Klev leans toward Vortex, grinning.

  "I’m just saying, you don’t need to go all hero mode every second of the day," Klev teases, picking at his food. "It’s not that serious."

  Vortex scoffs. "Yeah? Go tell that to folks who really need savin’.”

  Cherry sighs, resting her chin in her palm. "Will you two shut up? You’re making my head hurt."

  Klev only grins wider. "Aw, sorry, mom.”

  The conversation shifts, but the thread between them holds—pulling them into something real. Something loud. Something alive.

  They didn't even realize I came.

  No hi.

  Nothing.

  I am just here again, and that's it.

  A weight pools in my ribs, dragging me down. I clench my fists, the bruises on my knuckles throbbing. The girl I hit today never saw it coming. The way she gasped, the way the others stared—it should’ve made me feel bad.

  It didn’t.

  Because for one second, they saw me.

  What if I stood up? What if I spoke?

  Would they pause, turn, let me in?

  I should do that!

  I shift in my seat. My chair creaks. No one looks.

  Cherry is busy rubbing Zetts hair, “Why aren't you eating? Is something wrong?”

  What about me?

  You've never asked about me.

  My fingers twitch. I curl them around the knife beside my pte. The handle is rough, the edge dulled from years of cutting cheap meat and stale bread. I pick it up.

  I don’t think.

  I just—

  My heart pounds.

  I squeeze.

  No.

  A sharp inhale. My grip loosens. I’m being stupid. So, so stupid.

  Vortex is passing green peas with his fork to Klev, he ughs the moment he fails to pass back, the pea rolling off the table.

  I squeeze again.

  Maybe this is what it takes.

  Maybe pain is the price.

  I life the bde.

  I could stop.

  I should stop.

  I don't.

  Then—I drag the bde across my palm.

  Pain.

  It doesn't burn, it destroys. I shudder, breath hitching. My fingers spasm. The knife slips from my grip, cttering against the table.

  It feels like my hand is screaming.

  I look down, my blood is rolling over my palm, spilling between my fingers, dripping onto the wood. The edges of the room blur.

  It hurts.

  It hurts so much.

  Around me, just the deafening cng of metal against wood.

  Then the room stills.

  I open my eyes. They are staring. Forks stop midair.

  My breath shakes, my whole arm trembling. Pain pulses through my hand, up my wrist, into my ribs.

  But I don’t pull back.

  I don’t hide it.

  I let them see.

  “I’ll become a hero,” I say.

  The words leave my lips, without my will.

  They gape.

  I hear one of the kids say, "She cut her hand for that.”

  Another says, “T-thats cool.”

  My hand shakes.

  But my chest—my chest is steady.

  I am real.

  I am here.

  And they can’t ignore me anymore.