James

It's raining, of course. It's always raining in this town. Not the fun kind of rain, like in movies where everyone dances and kisses under streetlights. No, this is the cold, sideways kind that gets into your bones and ruins your mood before you've even had a chance to figure out what mood you're in.

I'm halfway through a cigarette, even though it's soggy and tastes like ash-flavored regret. But hey, what else am I supposed to do? The streets are dead, just me and the rain and the echo of my boots on the pavement.

I light another one, shielding it from the wind with my hand, and start walking. No plan, no destination. I like it that way. Plans are overrated. Or maybe I'm just bad at them.

There's this itch under my skin, though, like I'm waiting for something, and I hate waiting. It's not impatience exactly—it's... heavier. Like I'm late for something important, and I don't even know what it is.

By the time I get home, I'm soaked through, my hair plastered to my forehead, my jacket dripping onto the welcome mat that reads "Home Sweet Home" like a bad joke. I kick off my boots, toss my damp jacket onto the back of a chair, and head straight for the kitchen.

Mom's there, her back to me, signing something into the air. She does that sometimes, talks to herself when she thinks I'm not watching. I lean against the doorframe, waiting for her to notice me.

She turns, spots me, and raises an eyebrow. WHERE WERE YOU? she signs, her hands moving quick and sharp, the way they always do when she's annoyed.

I shrug, stuffing my hands into my pockets. "Out," I say aloud, because I know she can read my lips.

She rolls her eyes. OUT WHERE?

"Nowhere."

Her fingers fly again: NOWHERE IS NOT A PLACE.

I can't help but grin. She's the only person who can call me out like that and make me feel guilty without saying a word. I grab a towel from the counter and start drying my hair, but she's not done with me yet.

YOU'RE WET. SIT.

I don't argue. I sit at the table while she pours me a cup of tea, her movements quick and efficient. She doesn't ask if I want tea—she just knows.

As she sets the mug in front of me, she signs: STAY OUT OF TROUBLE. I MEAN IT.

"Yeah, yeah," I mumble, blowing on the tea to cool it down.

She smirks, ruffles my hair like I'm five years old, and heads back to the living room.

I sit there for a while, sipping my tea and staring out the window at the rain. That itch under my skin is still there, stronger now. I don't know what it means, but it feels like the kind of thing you can't run from, no matter how many cigarettes you smoke or how far you walk.

Charlie

The house smelled like stale cigarettes and something burnt when I got home. I knew before I even opened the door that Mom hadn't gotten out of bed again.

Sure enough, she was on the couch this time, half-wrapped in a blanket with the TV on but muted. Her eyes were bloodshot, her hair tangled like she hadn't brushed it in days. I wanted to be angry, but all I felt was tired.

"Mom?" I said softly. She didn't even look at me, just muttered something under her breath.

I asked if she'd eaten, but she waved me off like the words were smoke she could push away. I made her some toast anyway and left it on the coffee table before heading upstairs.

In my room, the rain tapped against the window like it was asking to come in. I sat at my desk, staring at my sketchbook. There was that face again—dark hair, blue eyes, sharp angles. I don't know who it is or why I keep drawing it, but there it was, staring back at me like it knew something I didn't.

I opened my diary and started writing, the pen moving almost on its own.

Diary Entry

April 23, 1995

Rain has always felt... quiet to me. Like the world's taking a breath, pressing pause for just a moment. I wish I could press pause too. Maybe then I'd figure out what's wrong with me.

School was the same as always: people talking, me listening, teachers writing things on the board, and me copying them down. Nothing special. Nothing different.

Lunch was the best part of the day, mostly because I spent it in the library. There's this spot near the back, by the window, where you can hear the rain if it's loud enough. That's where I go when the noise gets to be too much.

I've been sketching more lately. Today, it was a face. Dark hair, blue eyes, sharp features. I don't know who it is or why I felt the need to draw it, but there it is on the page, staring back at me like it knows something I don't.

It's stupid, but sometimes I feel like I'm waiting for something. Or someone. It's a silly thought, I know. I mean, who waits for someone they've never met?

Anyway, the rain is still falling, and the world is still quiet. I hope it stays that way, at least for tonight.

P.S. Mom didn't eat the toast.