I’m fifteen. I live with my mom.
I don’t know my dad—never did.
Mom’s gone most of the day, doing… I don’t really know what.
She comes back late sometimes, and if there’s dinner, it’s always whatever can fit in the microwave.

We pay $65 a night for this room.
She scrapes it up, one shift at a time. One favor. One breath.
Every morning it starts over—another chase just to keep the key card from expiring.

Some nights the ice machine works. Some nights it hums like it’s trying, but never quite makes it.
The hallway’s always alive—yelling, deals, girls in heels clicking past with guys who never smile.
There’s never silence. Just different kinds of noise.

My heart screams sometimes.
But my mouth stays shut.
Mom taught me that silence can save you. Maybe. If you’re lucky.

This is normal now.
I’m a kid. I guess I’m used to it.

But sometimes the screaming shifts.
It sounds like pain.
And then it stops—fast—like someone pressed mute.
That kind doesn’t come back for a few days.

I think someone’s getting hit.
I think it’s her.
I wish I knew.

I don’t always hear her.
But I do.

Same scream. Same silence.

She must feel stuck.
Maybe she can’t leave.
Maybe none of us can.

I walk to school when I can.
It’s far, and some days my stomach makes the decisions for me.
Other kids don’t ask where I live.
They wouldn’t get it if I told them.

I just keep showing up.
Because surviving counts for something.