“He’s just so angry,” she whispered, her voice a razor blade wrapped in tissue. “I don’t know this person anymore.”
He’d kissed her then. Not because he was brave, but because for one second, the pressure inside him found a pinhole. She kissed him back, and for three songs’ worth of time, he forgot he was seventeen. He forgot the absent father, the tired mother, the screaming silence. He just was . rocco-s pov 17
“Roo? Meatloaf’s in an hour.”
He slid down the doorframe until he was sitting on the threadbare carpet. His room was a museum of a younger self: guitar picks that no longer inspired him, a half-finished model of a ’69 Charger, a stack of college brochures he hadn’t opened. Everyone kept asking, “What do you want to do with your life?” As if seventeen was supposed to be the answer and not the question itself. “He’s just so angry,” she whispered, her voice
He typed back: “Maybe.”