Page 45 of Broken Pieces
That’s what happens when you’re a foster kid—your absence isn’t noticed, it’s expected. Fucked if I know where he disappears to. But every time I walk in and see that empty seat, something sharp twists deeper under my skin. It pisses me off more than I’ll ever admit, because boys aren’t supposed to haunt me. They’re supposed to pass through, be forgettable.
But Zane?
He lingers.
What… if he thinks I’m just another girl to keep him company?
Fuck that and fuck him.
I’m not some name he forgets by morning, not some throwaway moment he files with all the others.
Still, I do the one thing I swore I wouldn’t. I wait.
I drag myself up to the rooftop after Cassie dumps me back at that hellhole, and sit on the cold tin until my legs go numb, pretending the view is enough. But I always find myself listening. Waiting for footsteps, waiting for him.
But he never comes.
Guess he’s too busy getting off with Sam or whoever was easy enough that day.
And yet, on the rare days he actually shows up at school, Cassie swears he watches me. Says she catches him staring when I’m not looking.
But she could be full of shit. Cassie wants there to be something between Zane and I. She wants it to be messy, dramatic, fucked up in all the ways that make sense in her head.
I never told her about the kiss because Cassie would ask the kind of questions I’m not ready to answer. So I keep my mouth shut. Pretend it didn’t happen. That I don’t care. Even though I do. Too fucking much.
Today, I’m stuck in the counselor’s office again.
My fortnightly dose of bullshit. Some caseworker decided I need regular check-ins, as if thirty minutes of soft voices and generic advice is going to stitch me back together. Like I’m a school project someone’s trying to salvage with dollar store glue and fake empathy.
She sits across from me, her face stretched into that practiced expression, concern just warm enough to be patronizing. Thin-framed glasses slipping down her nose. Hands folded in some fake display of calm, the kind meant to trick me into trusting her.
She blinks slowly, dragging it out, convinced the silence will make me crack wide open and I’ll spill everything.
“Skylar,” she says, all gentle and rehearsed, “do you want to talk about your outburst last week?”
Fuck no.
I want to slam the door so hard the frame cracks and never step foot in this office again.
But instead, I sit here.
Arms folded tight across my chest. Chewing the inside of my cheek until I catch the tang of blood.
The woman across from me doesn’t get that. She never will.
To her, I’m another case file with a temper problem. Another foster kid with bruises no one bothers to ask about. A red folder stamped with “trauma” and shoved to the bottom of the stack. She doesn’t see me, she only sees a warning label.
“Why don’t you just go find something else to fix?” I mutter. “There’s enough broken shit in this place more fucked up than me.”
Her lips twitch in some half-assed attempt at patience. It lands somewhere between awkward and pathetic.
“You’re not in trouble, Skylar. This is a safe space,” she says, all soft and soothing.
Safe.
That word tastes like ash.
What a fucking joke.
