Rocco-s Pov 17 Now

“He’s just so angry,” she whispered, her voice a razor blade wrapped in tissue. “I don’t know this person anymore.”

The Weight of Seventeen

Rocco stood up. He walked to his mirror and looked at the boy staring back. Dark circles. A jaw that needed shaving but not badly enough to bother. A small scar above his eyebrow from a bike crash when he was twelve—back when pain was simple, just gravel and blood and a mother’s kiss. rocco-s pov 17

He hadn’t known how to explain that the shaking was relief. That he’d been holding his breath since the day his dad left, and her lips had made him exhale. So he’d laughed, said something stupid like “It’s cold in here,” and left the closet. He’d walked home alone in the rain, hating himself for running away from the one person who might actually see him.

Rocco grabbed his jacket. He didn’t know who he wanted to be tonight—the angry boy, the sad boy, the boy who kissed girls in closets and then ran. He only knew that staying in this room, with its museum of old selves, was a kind of dying. “He’s just so angry,” she whispered, her voice

She looked up, startled.

He typed back: “Maybe.”

“I’m going out. But I’ll be home by ten.”