Chapter 17: Cracks in the Smile

Because sometimes the scariest sound is the one someone swallows down before you can hear it.

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There are two kinds of silence.

The first is easy — the kind that sits between words like a lazy cat, warm and harmless.

The second… feels like glass under your feet. One wrong move and everything shatters.

Lately, we’ve been living in the second kind.

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The day started with laughter. That should’ve been a warning. Happiness never shows up uninvited. It’s bait.

Yume was sitting on the edge of the bed in her small apartment, hair falling like spilled ink across her shoulder. The blinds let in weak light, slicing the room into gray stripes.

She smiled when I walked in. That was mistake number two — smiles like that aren’t free.

“You’re early,” she said, her voice warm but thinner than before, like stretched thread.

“Couldn’t sleep,” I replied, which was true. Nightmares don’t make good bedmates.

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She tried to eat breakfast. Emphasis on tried.

One bite, then another, then the fork rested on the plate like it was too heavy for her hand.

“Not hungry?” I asked.

She shook her head. “Just… full, I guess.”

Full. On two bites of toast.

Sure. And I’m a motivational speaker.

I wanted to push. Ask why her wrists looked sharper, why her smile looked tired, why her skin had turned the color of bad porcelain.

Instead, I said nothing. Because cowards don’t ask questions they’re afraid to hear answers to.

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Later, while I stepped out to grab coffee, it happened.

She was in the bathroom, gripping the sink like it was the only thing keeping her tethered.

The first cough came dry. The second came wet.

The third brought red. Bright. Violent. Wrong.

Blood smeared her palm like war paint. It dripped into the sink, curling into the water like ink bleeding across paper.

She stared at it, breath hitching — not with panic, but something worse: acceptance.

Then she turned the tap on full blast, washing it away like guilt, like proof, like hope.

When I came back, she was smiling again.

Perfect. Crooked. Fragile.

“Coffee smells good,” she said, like nothing happened.

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We sat on the couch. She talked about music. About wanting to try writing a song. About… nothing that mattered and everything that did.

And I laughed where I was supposed to.

But under every word, something dark pulsed — like a shadow stretching its fingers.

Her laugh was softer now. Like it had to fight its way out of her chest.

And every time it faded, the silence after it felt heavier.

Sharp. Waiting.

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I walked home that night with my fists in my pockets, nails carving crescents into my palms.

Every instinct screamed at me to drag the truth out of her throat, shake the secrets loose.

But when I thought about her face — calm, brave, still smiling for me — the words died in my mouth.

So I kept walking.

Kept pretending everything was fine.

Because pretending is easier than admitting you’re standing on glass.

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Somewhere behind me, in a small apartment that smelled faintly of coffee and soap, a girl wiped blood from her lips and smiled at her reflection like nothing was wrong.

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