The shrill of the alarm cuts through the dark. 6:00 a.m. stark and sharp, like always. She rubs her eyes with the backs of her hands, always tired, always sore. Did she even sleep? Sometimes it’s hard to tell. The nights blur into each other, hours on her back staring at the ceiling, counting her heartbeats like they might stop if she missed one.

By 6:30, she’s dressed, her uniform creased into perfection, her lashes curled, her hair tied in a ponytail that says I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine.

They move through the kitchen like invisible people, half in the dark; quiet, measured, mechanical. Her mother pours coffee like it’s a ritual that keeps them upright, no one speaks, not even Josh. Josh, her seven-year-old brother, already knows not to make too much noise in the mornings. His cereal goes soggy from distraction, feet swinging beneath him, tracing invisible circles in the air, he fidgets silently with a dinosaur plushie in one hand, the other carefully holding his spoon.

The kettle clicks off, no one moves, a drawer opens; slow and careful. Kendel’s stomach clenches at the sound, too loud, always too loud. Mornings are a minefield, and they’ve learned to tiptoe between explosions, because in the room down the hall, Richard, her stepfather, is still asleep. He works from home, some kind of consultant or financial advisor. People respect him, admire him, take his word as gospel, no one questions the version of him they see, no one looks beneath the surface. No one notices the family scuttling under his feet. He didn’t just create the illusion of a perfect family; he copyrighted it.

Kendel packs lunches with precision, aware of every sound, every crinkle of plastic. Any noise might wake him and when he wakes early, it’s never good. She wonders, sometimes, what would happen if her mother left. If it was just her, Josh, and Katrina in a cramped flat somewhere, with peeling paint and creaky floors. With laughter that didn’t have to be hushed. Would Josh still sleep with one eye open? Would Katrina sing again? Would she remember how? She imagines a small kitchen with mismatched mugs, music playing, a window that lets in more light than fear.

They move like ghosts until the door clicks shut behind them and she breathes a sigh of relief.

At Greystone College, everything looks normal, it’s a mid-sized school in a too-clean suburb; rows of clipped hedges, gum scraped off the pavement, a seemingly desirable neighborhood. Teachers wear lanyards like armor and use words like “grit” and “potential” without irony. The students are polished, the buildings are beige. Everything feels like it’s trying too hard, a universe within these walls, holding stories and secrets.

For Kendel, school is a kind of escape; predictable, contained. No raised voices, no rules that change mid-sentence, no Richard. Here, she can exhale; a little, but only if she gets the performance right.

She slides into her school skin like it’s a second uniform. Not-too-much, not-too-little, nice but forgettable. Her laugh is carefully portioned, her steps perfectly timed, her posture measured, not stiff, her face neutral, not blank. It’s a full-time job not to stand out, she doesn’t want to be noticed, doesn’t want any attention, she wants to glide through the shadows, no attention means no drama and no drama means safety.

Her friends swarm the gates like butterflies on caffeine. She joins them with a smile she stitched on in the car. Her shoulders loosen just enough to pass as relaxed, but her body still knows it’s on duty, every movement is a calculation.

They’ve been friends since they were nine. Kendel joined at fourteen, when Richard shifted the family again. She was used to being the new kid, and she hated it, the constant re-learning of who to be, but Ashleigh approached her straight away, warm, and gentle, and didn’t mind the silences. They shared a joke about the beige-ness of the school and the ridiculous old-fashioned pleated uniforms, and somehow that was enough to begin.

Ashleigh is soft and watchful, the one who always remembers your birthday and your favorite color, she understood early on that Kendel couldn’t go to afterschool activities or host people at her house, she never pressed, and Kendel was quietly, deeply grateful.

Once, Ashleigh had asked if she wanted to come over and paint their nails. Kendel had made up an excuse about a family dinner. The next time, it was homework, then babysitting Josh. The excuses looped until Ashleigh stopped asking. Kendel never explained, but the ache of that closed door sat heavy in her chest for days.

She longs for what they have, the casual, innocent ease. She wants to stay late at someone’s house and eat popcorn on the carpet and talk about nothing, she wants to be the kind of girl who doesn’t have to scan every text before replying, who can giggle too loud without punishment, who gets dropped off outside the front gate without flinching.

Maddy is glossy and confident, a walking magazine cover, Georgia is all thoughts and notebooks and sentences that start with “Did you know?” Jasmine is loud and loyal, the type to punch someone for you, then cry after. Kendel is often intimidated by Maddy, she has it all: a loving family, a cute boyfriend, and a talent that shines. Kendel never feels she quite measures up. Georgia is more probing, too observant. Kendel is wary of that, she doesn’t want Georgia’s investigator instinct to sniff out any of her hidden truths, so she keeps a little distance. Jasmine brings out Kendel’s laughter, allows her to let go occasionally, and sometimes, she loves that feeling; wild and unexpected, like a song you didn’t know you needed.

Ashleigh and Kendel are the closest, they share more than the others or maybe, Ashleigh just notices more. She never comments when Kendel flinches at sudden noises or goes quiet mid-sentence, she doesn’t mind when Kendel zones out, or forgets what they were laughing about. She just waits, that quiet patience has stitched them together in small, invisible ways.

While she’s grateful to have a friend group, Kendel always feels like the extra piece, the one who still checks her phone after every joke, just to be sure no one’s laughing at her. The one who replays conversations days or weeks later, hoping she didn’t say something wrong. The one who watches the others talk about Year Six camp like it’s a sacred rite, and laughs like she was there, too; she wasn’t. Sometimes she wonders if they remember she joined late, if they know she still feels like a substitute friend; borrowed, but not quite kept. She loves them, she does, but sometimes, late at night, she wonders if they’d still love her if they really knew. If they’d still text her back if they saw the cracks beneath the smile.

At lunchtime, the five of them sprawl across the grass, legs tucked under pleated skirts, phones out, laughter bouncing between them like a pinball machine. They dissect last night’s episode of a show Kendel didn’t get to watch.

At home, the TV is not her choice, Richard picks; always. Josh had been sent to his room “too young for that sort of thing.” Kendel stayed in the lounge, curled on the farthest end of the couch, silent, watching Richard’s reactions more than the screen, every laugh, every sneer. She remembers the weight of his stare more than the storyline, the smell of his aftershave, the hum of the heating, the sound of him breathing; too loud, like the room belonged to him, as well as everyone in it.

Now, under the sun, Georgia’s laughing, Ashleigh leans against Jasmine’s shoulder, Jasmine tosses popcorn into the air and tries to catch it, missing more than she lands. “Okay but he’s the only reason I even keep watching,” Maddy says, rolling her eyes. “Toxic hot is still hot.” They all laugh, Ashleigh turns to Kendel, a little softer, “You, okay?” Kendel’s fingers twitch in the grass, there’s a half-second, a hairline crack, where she considers telling the truth. Just a piece of it; not the blade, not the hallway, but maybe something about being tired in a way sleep can’t fix, but her mouth moves first, out of muscle memory. “Didn’t sleep.”

Technically true: she doesn’t say it’s because Richard was pacing the hallway at midnight or that she’d locked herself in the bathroom, knees to chest, razor in hand, just to feel like she still existed. She doesn’t say that when she finally did sleep, it was shallow and dreamless, like forgetting to live.

Ashleigh doesn’t press, but her gaze lingers, steady, Kendel looks away first, for a beat, Kendel imagines blurting it all out; telling them about the rules that change without warning, the fear that sits in her chest like a coiled wire. She imagines them wrapping her in a tight, unbreakable circle, Georgia writing her a poem, Jasmine holding her hand like a lifeline, Maddy posting a black square in solidarity, Ashleigh crying, whispering, “I should’ve known.” And for a second, just a second, it almost feels real.

But then Jasmine laughs too loudly, Maddy changes the subject, Georgia’s explaining some theory about emotional intelligence. The conversation rolls on without a ripple, the moment vanishes, like breath on a mirror.

It happens in the locker room. P.E. is the worst, all angles, and eyes, it’s almost impossible to hide. The girls are changing; shirts pulled over heads, socks yanked up, bras unclipped and re-hooked with swift, practiced hands. The lights are too bright, the air too cold, Kendel moves fast, but not fast enough. Her sleeve slips. Ashleigh sees it, just a second, just enough. Three fresh lines; raised, red, too real.

Ashleigh’s breath catches, her eyes widen. Kendel sees her see, time blurs, and suddenly, it’s last night again. Her chest locks up, it’s like the room tilts and she’s standing outside herself, watching this whole thing happen from somewhere far away, every instinct screams to cover, to deny, to pretend it’s nothing; but the air between them feels heavy, dangerous, like a secret too loud to silence.