It happens again.

A crash, a cry—

And before she even speaks,

Their eyes are on her.

Her little brother stands behind them,

tears trembling at the edge of his lashes,

his hands still sticky with what he’s done.

But they don’t see that.

They see her.

“Why can’t you be patient?” they say.

“Why do you always fight with him?”

And she wants to scream,

to tear the words out of her throat—

“I didn’t do anything!”

But it never matters.

It never does.

He gets a hug,

She gets the lecture.

He gets comfort,

She gets silence.

And later, in her room,

She wonders if they’ll ever see

that she’s not a villain,

just a girl who’s tired of being misunderstood.

Because love doesn’t always sound like forgiveness.

Sometimes,

it sounds like quiet crying through a closed door.