Page 77 of Broken Pieces
A small box hits the dresser, wrapped in cheap paper that’s already tearing at the corners.
“Happy birthday.”
Two words.
No smile. No pause.
And she’s gone.
The door clicks shut, and the quiet that follows is worse than anything she could’ve said.
It seeps into the walls, pressing into my chest until breathing feels like an effort.
I glance at the dresser.
The box sits there, waiting. Small. Useless but still trying to pretend it matters.
I shove the blanket off and climb down from the top bunk. My feet hit the floor hard.
The paper’s wrinkled, taped unevenly, covered in those stupid cartoon candles that seem more like a joke than a celebration.
I tear it open, and a keychain drops into my palm.
Plastic.
Pink.
A little heart that reads Dream Big. The words catch the light for half a second before fading back into nothing.
The irony stings. Dream big, when the only dream I’ve got is finding somewhere to sleep tonight.
It’s cheap. Hollow. Exactly what this house has always been.
I want to hurl it against the wall to watch it split open, plastic heart snapping in two. I want to scream that she could’ve at least pretended I was worth the effort.
But I don’t.
I stare at it, the wordsDream Bigstaring back, all fake shine and cheap promises. My vision burns until everything goes fuzzy.
In my head, I hear her voice. The same line she feeds every kid who ever passes through that front door."Don’t get comfortable. This isn’t forever."
I grab a clean shirt from the chair and pull it on.
Jeans next, followed by socks that don’t match because none of it matters.
When I’m done, I glance around the room, ignoring the other girls watching me.
My eyes land on the keychain sitting on the dresser,pink and pathetic, still telling me to Dream Big.
For some stupid reason I can’t explain, I slip it into my pocket.
Then, I pack up my shit.
There isn’t much to take. A few shirts. Two pairs of jeans, a skirt. The photo of me and Cassie from her fifteenth birthday. We’re both grinning, sunburnt, mid-laugh. The kind of smile you only wear when you still think the world’s gonna be kind.
That was the last time I believed in happy endings.
By the time I zip the bag shut, my chest is hollow. I catch my reflection in the cracked mirror. My face appears older somehow, sharper around the edges. It’s what happens when you finally stop hoping someone will choose you.
