Chapter 1: Jagged Edges

People called it the spectrum. For us, it was just the jagged reality of every day. In the old photo albums, Mason was the one always turned away, face half in shadow, apart from the laughter and noise.

When I forced a kiss on him, Mason’s reaction was always the same. Not a word, just a look—his eyes rimmed red, angry, and raw. No shouting, no pushing me away, just that steady, unblinking glare, like he was silently daring me to do it again. The silence always stung more than any slap could’ve.

I used to compare him to a caged canary—kept safe, but never free. When he’d curl up on the window seat and sob, his shoulders shaking, I’d watch from the hallway, torn between guilt and power. The house would be dead quiet except for those muffled, broken sounds. Even now, I sometimes hear them in the hum of the fridge late at night.

It was a hatred that burned slow, like embers under ash. Every glare, every slammed door, every silent meal at that too-big kitchen table was another match struck between us. Sometimes I wondered if all families in Ohio lived with this much venom beneath their roofs.

But then came that winter night. The air was sharp with the kind of cold that makes your fingers ache. I’d just lost track of time, that was all—two hours late, nothing more. Still, the house felt wrong when I stepped out of the car, headlights sweeping across the snow-laced lawn.

My phone screen glowed with missed calls. Over and over, his name filled the log, like a lifeline I’d left hanging. I could almost feel the static in the air, the tension building with every unanswered ring.

Even through the cracked speaker, I could hear the uncertainty in his voice—each word stretched and stilted, as if repeating it might summon me faster. The desperation was raw, almost childlike: "Tess, Tess, come, come back..." Over and over, until the battery finally died. It haunted me for weeks after, the way he’d called for me like that.