Chapter 3 Three Years Before

Three years before Penny

I push the front door open and step inside.

The yelling hits me right away. It always does. Like walking into a wall.

My parents are at it again. Voices sharp, bouncing off the walls, one trying to talk over the other. Same as always.

I close the door gently behind me. Slip my shoes off, set them neatly against the wall. It’s a habit by now. Routine. The house feels less angry if I keep my corner of it clean.

“—you don’t listen, you never listen—”

“You’re the one who never—”

I keep my eyes on the floor as I walk to the kitchen. My water bottle clunks against the sink. I rinse it out, fill it, let the sound of running water drown out their voices for a second. Just a second.

The fridge light spills cold against my face when I open it. I grab an apple, shut the door soft. Take a bite. Crunch loud in my ears, almost loud enough to cover their screaming. Almost.

“—don’t turn this on me—”

“Then stop acting like you’re—”

I set the apple down, wash the sticky juice off my fingers, dry them on the towel hanging crooked on the oven. All the while, their voices spike and clash like glass breaking.

I try to walk past the living room. Eyes down, shoulders tense. If I move fast enough, they won’t notice. If I’m quiet enough, I’ll slip right by.

But my dad’s voice cuts through. “Logan.”

I stop. My stomach twists. He’s standing in the doorway, face red, hands clenched into fists at his sides. “Tell me. Who’s right here?”

My chest goes cold. They never pull me in. Not like this. I freeze, every muscle locked, heart pounding. “I—I don’t know. I don’t… I don’t want to get into it.”

My mom’s voice snaps from behind him, sharp and desperate. “Don’t drag him into this! He’s a kid, leave him out of it.”

And just like that, their voices crash together again, back at each other’s throats, and I slip away, my pulse hammering.

Down the narrow stairs. Into the basement. My room.

It’s cooler down here. The air smells faintly damp, but it’s mine. The walls are half concrete, half covered with posters I’ve taped up over the years. My bed’s against the far wall, blankets pulled tight. A desk, a lamp, a shelf stuffed with books. The hum of the old furnace fills the space, steady, comforting.

The yelling upstairs fades, muffled through the ceiling. Just a buzz now. Like static.

I sit on my bed. Exhale slow. My body feels heavy, like I’ve been carrying the whole house on my shoulders.

I reach for the book on my nightstand. The cover’s bent, pages soft from being flipped so much. I’ve nearly finished it, only a few chapters left. Picked it up two days ago, tore through it.

It’s about a guy who finds a photograph on the ground. Just a picture of a girl. A stranger. And she’s so beautiful he can’t stop thinking about her. He sets off to find her, no matter how far, no matter how impossible. A quest for someone he’s never met but already feels pulled to.

I flip the pages, eyes tracing words I know I’ll devour. The story drags me somewhere else — train stations, crowded cities, foreign streets glowing with neon. Every clue he finds pulls him closer to her. Every obstacle just makes him more determined. And I like that he seems to be finding himself, too, through this whole journey. Like she was the reason he started, yes, but he's learning more than he thought possible.

Upstairs, a door slams. A voice cracks sharp, then fades again. I press deeper into my mattress, blocking it out.

I wonder what it must be like. To feel something that strongly. To look at someone once and know they matter. To know you’d follow that thread across the world if you had to.

The book trembles a little in my hands before I steady it.

I read until my eyes blur, until the words double and I have to blink them back into focus. The buzzing from upstairs is just background now, dull and distant. My eyelids grow heavy.

I close the book carefully, lay it on my chest. Stare at the ceiling in the dim light.

And I sigh.

I wonder if I’ll ever feel like that. If someone will ever crash into my life so hard I can’t breathe without them. If I’ll ever look at someone and know — they’re it.

The furnace hums. My body sinks deeper into the bed. The book slides to the side.

My eyes close, and the dark takes me before the next shout upstairs can find its way down.