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Chapter Seven – Quiet Places
The late afternoon sunlight spilled through the windows like honey as school ended for the day. Students streamed out, their chatter echoing through the halls, but Harry took his time packing up. He always did. Rushing meant bumping into people. Bumping into people meant sneers, laughter, or worse—words that stuck harder than bruises.
But this time, Sophie waited for him outside.
"You're walking home with me," she said, no room for negotiation in her voice.
Harry hesitated. "Why?"
She shrugged. "Because you look like you need it. And because I want to."
He wanted to argue. Wanted to find some excuse. But he didn't.
They started walking.
It was a quiet route—past the back fence of the school, through a cluster of trees that lined the edge of the neighborhood. The air smelled like damp leaves and distant rain. For a while, they didn't speak. And it wasn't awkward. It was... peaceful.
"Do you always take this route?" Harry asked eventually.
"Only when I want to avoid people," Sophie replied. "Which is... basically every day now."
Harry looked over at her. "You're handling it better than I expected."
Sophie gave a dry laugh. "I've moved around a lot. I'm used to starting over. Used to being the new girl, the odd one, the one people whisper about. It's annoying, but... it doesn't break me."
"You ever wish you were invisible?"
She stopped walking for a moment, then said quietly, "No. I just wish people saw what mattered."
---
Sophie's house was different from what Harry expected—modest, two stories, with a slightly crooked fence and flower pots that looked like they'd been arranged in a rush. A basketball hoop hung above the garage, slightly tilted.
As they stepped inside, warm smells drifted out from the kitchen—onions, garlic, something being sautéed.
"I'm home!" Sophie called.
A voice responded from upstairs. "You better not have brought another cat!"
Harry raised a brow. "Another?"
"She has a rescue habit," said a voice from behind the living room wall.
A tall guy emerged—broad-shouldered, mid-twenties, tattoos running down one arm, a casual hoodie, and a smirk. His presence filled the room without effort.
"This is Jesse," Sophie introduced. "My older brother. He pretends to be annoyed by me, but he's not."
"I deny everything," Jesse said, extending a hand to Harry. "You must be the infamous Harry."
Harry paused. "Infamous?"
"Small school. People talk," Jesse said, not unkindly. "Relax. I don't care what they say. Soph's a good judge of character. Mostly."
Sophie threw a pillow at him.
They laughed. Harry didn't.
Jesse noticed.
"Anyway," Jesse continued, "I was just about to head out. Don't break anything. And don't let Sophie convince you to rescue any injured pigeons."
Once he was gone, Sophie led Harry to the kitchen, where she handed him a glass of water and motioned to the back porch.
They sat on the old wooden steps, feet resting on the grass. The sun was beginning to set, painting the sky in soft oranges and purples.
"You okay?" she asked.
"I don't know," Harry replied honestly. "I feel like... like I've been holding my breath for years. And now everything's changing and I don't know if that's good or just dangerous."
Sophie nodded slowly. "Change feels like drowning at first. But sometimes it's the only way to wash everything clean."
He looked at her. "You always talk like a book."
She grinned. "That's a compliment."
"I didn't say it was."
They both laughed—quietly, cautiously. But it felt real.
---
Later, as Sophie showed him her room—walls covered in posters of indie bands, string lights hanging from the ceiling, stacks of books under her bed—Harry found himself relaxing in a way he didn't remember being possible.
"People think I'm weird for liking books more than parties," Sophie said, sitting cross-legged on the bed. "But stories are safe. They don't change their mind about you."
Harry sat near the window, fingers absentmindedly tracing the glass. "I used to draw all the time. Comics. Sketches. Even painted once or twice."
"What stopped you?"
He didn't answer at first.
Then, quietly: "Everyone."
Sophie watched him. "You ever think about starting again?"
Harry shook his head. "I wouldn't even know where to begin."
She stood and rummaged through a drawer, eventually pulling out a blank sketchpad and a pack of pencils.
"Here," she said, holding them out. "Begin."
Harry looked at the tools like they were foreign objects. Like they might bite him.
But he took them.
Just held them for a while.
Then, with the sun setting behind him, casting golden light across the floor, he began to draw.
Sophie watched in silence as the pencil moved—hesitantly at first, then more sure. His lines were sharp, dark, deliberate. He didn't speak. Just focused.
When he finally stopped, Sophie leaned in and stared at the sketch.
It was of her.
Not a perfect portrait—stylized, almost comic-book-like—but unmistakably her. Hair wild, eyes wide and brave. Not pretty in a polished way, but powerful. Strong.
Sophie blinked. "That's... me?"
Harry nodded, not meeting her eyes.
"I look like a warrior."
"You are," he muttered.
She didn't speak for a long time. Then she said, "You're going to be someone, Harry Blake."
He laughed bitterly. "Too late for that."
"No," she said. "It's not."
---
It was late when Harry finally left. Jesse had returned and offered him a ride home, no questions asked.
As the car rolled through the quiet streets, Jesse glanced over.
"You like my sister?"
Harry froze. "What?"
"Relax, I'm not going to give you the 'big brother' speech. Just... she's been through stuff, too. She hides it better than most, but it's there. If you're going to be in her life, be real about it."
Harry didn't know how to answer that.
Jesse didn't press.
When they reached his house, Harry murmured a thank you and slipped inside quietly. His mom was asleep. The house was silent, untouched, like it had been frozen in time.
He sat on his bed, sketchpad still in hand.
And for the first time in a long while, he didn't feel like the boy everyone hated.
He felt like someone becoming.