PART I: Unseen, Unsaid

CHAPTER ONE - I Keep It Quiet
I keep it quiet, like a prayer I don’t believe in. No one hears silence when it looks like success.

 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.

 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 laugh loudly, without checking? 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 finally breathes.

***

 At Ashford High, 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 neighbourhood. Teachers wear lanyards like armour and use words like grit and potential without irony. The students are polished, the buildings 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, not blank.

 It’s a full-time job not to stand out. She doesn’t want to be noticed, doesn’t want attention, she wants to glide through the shadows. No attention means no drama, and no drama means safety.

 Sometimes she wonders if anyone would notice if she stopped showing up - not disappear, just stop pretending. Maybe music could say what she can’t.

 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, gentle, and unbothered by silences. They shared a joke about the beige-ness of the school and the ridiculous pleated uniforms, and somehow that was enough to begin.

 Ashleigh is soft and watchful, the one who always remembers birthdays and favourite colours. She understood early on that Kendel couldn’t go to after-school 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 made up an excuse about a family dinner. The next time, it was homework, then babysitting Josh. The excuses looped until Ashleigh stopped asking. The ache of that closed door sat heavy in her chest for days.

 She longs for what they have; the casual, innocent ease. To stay late at someone’s house and eat popcorn on the carpet, to talk about nothing. 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 and cry after. Kendel is often intimidated by Maddy; she has it all; a loving family, popularity, a talent that shines. Georgia is more probing, too observant. Kendel keeps her distance. Jasmine brings out her laughter, lets her let go occasionally. 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 for them, Kendel always feels like the extra piece; the one who replays conversations days later, hoping she didn’t say something wrong. The one who laughs about Year Six camp like she was there too; she wasn’t. Sometimes she wonders if they remember she joined late.

 She loves them, she does. But sometimes, late at night, she wonders if they’d still love her if they really knew.

***

 During free period, 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 misses 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.

 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, she 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, and the conversation rolls on without a ripple. The moment vanishes like breath on a mirror.

***

 The rumours reached her before he did.

 “Did you see him? The new guy? Total musician vibes. Hot in a broody way.”
 “Someone said he transferred from some fancy arts school. He plays guitar. Like, actually plays.”
 “He’s in our music class, I think.”

 Kendel keeps her head down, letting the voices slide past like cold wind. She tugs her hoodie sleeves over her hands, fingers clenching the frayed cuffs; the fabric like armour against attention.

 New people mean questions, curiosity, glances that linger. She already has enough of that at home and doesn’t need it following her to school.

 She tells herself she doesn’t care, but then she sees him.

 Leaning against the wall near the music block, hood up, hair tumbling out in every direction. Black jeans, black hoodie, scuffed boots. A guitar next to him, his fingers drum an invisible rhythm against it. Not restless; intentional. Like his body is playing a song only he can hear.

 He doesn’t scan the hallway like he owns it. He doesn’t smirk or insert himself into conversations. He just stands there, watching; not in a creepy way, but like he’s listening to the atmosphere, trying to understand it before stepping in.

 There’s something untethered about him. Something raw, quiet, deeply still. It unsettles her more than she wants to admit.

 Kendel’s breath catches. She glances away, pulse rising in her throat like a warning. What was that? What the hell was that?

 He isn’t looking at anyone; until he looks at her. And then it’s like being seen and heard and exposed all at once. His eyes don’t just find her; they hold her. Not in a flirtatious hey there kind of way. In a way that feels like he’s trying to figure out who she really is. Like he already knows there’s more.

 What if he sees too much? What if he already sees?

 Kendel looks down fast, heart hammering against her ribs like it’s trying to escape. He shouldn’t matter. She doesn’t even know him. But somehow, in the space of three seconds, her world tilts.

 “He’s dangerous,” Jasmine whispers, suddenly at her side, popping her gum like it isn’t the most significant moment of Kendel’s day. “Which obviously means we love him.”

 Kendel doesn’t laugh - can’t. Her throat is too tight.

 She tells herself it doesn’t mean anything, that he’s just a boy with a guitar and a stare that feels like a scar she hasn’t earned yet. But her hands are shaking inside her sleeves.

 “His name’s Aiden,” Maddy announces proudly, loving to be the holder of new, important information.

 He isn’t her type, she tells herself - not that she has one, but if she did; it would be blonde, predictable, nice smiles, and no emotional chaos. People who come with instructions, who colour inside the lines, people she can map and read and avoid disappointment from.

 Aiden is none of those things. He feels like a chord she doesn’t know how to play - off-key and somehow perfect.

 And even as she turns away, she can still feel the weight of his eyes on her skin.

***

 The rest of the day moves like static; teachers talking, bells ringing, friends chattering - all of it muffled beneath the hum of his stare replaying in her head.

 Aiden. Even the name pulses behind her ribs like a drumbeat she can’t quiet.

 By the time gym class rolls around, she’s still half-floating in that haze. Normally she’s careful; hyper-aware of space, sleeves, light. But today the world blurs, and she moves on autopilot.

 The girls are changing; shirts pulled over heads, socks yanked up, bras unclipped and re-hooked with 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. Suddenly it’s last night again.

 Her chest locks up. It’s like the room tilts, and she’s standing outside herself, watching it 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.

 Her mind flashes to the night before: her mother on a late supermarket run, Josh asleep, Richard in one of his moods; voice low, accusing. “You always look like you’re hiding something.” Then the word he never missed a chance to use: “There’s something sinister about you, Kendel.”

 She wasn’t hiding anything. Never had the chance to.

 It felt too much, too overwhelming, constant. She’d locked the bathroom door, turned on the fan, unwrapped the blade hidden behind the sink pipe, and sat on the floor. It wasn’t about pain; it was about release. When it stung, it made sense. When it bled, it quieted everything else; like turning down the volume on panic.

 Afterwards came the shame, the guilt, the scrubbed tiles, the long sleeves.

 Now Ashleigh’s eyes are still locked on hers. She looks gutted; gutted and helpless, like her breath forgot how to leave her lungs.

 “Please don’t,” Kendel whispers, tugging the sleeve down. Her voice is paper-thin, shaking, her body folding in on itself.

 Ashleigh swallows, lips parting like she might say something; but she only nods. Turns away slowly, like she’s just seen something sacred and broken at once.

 No one else notices, but it’s done – seen, and something has shifted.

 For a moment, Kendel isn’t sure what scares her more: being seen, or what comes next.

 She keeps her head down for the rest of class, feels every stare even when none are aimed at her. Ashleigh doesn’t look again, at least not directly, but Kendel feels it; the occasional glance, the silence too heavy not to notice.

 At the end of the period, Ashleigh lingers half a second longer than usual, like she might speak, but she doesn’t.

 Kendel tells herself maybe it didn’t look that bad, maybe Ashleigh didn’t really see. Maybe it’ll be like it never happened. But something inside her knows; something inside her is unravelling.

 She repeats the words in her head until they lose meaning. I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m fine.