4 Days Before the Party - Miles

The light in my room was pale this morning. Not white. Not gold. Something between a decayed bone and the inside of a raw almond. It came in diagonally through the sheer curtain, catching the dust in long, slow-moving ribbons. The curtain was cheap—polyester, off-brand, fraying at the edges—but it swayed like something elegant in the air from the cracked window.

I sat on the edge of my bed, studying the floorboards. They were maple, or maybe birch—I never cared to check, but they had a light yellow hue like old teeth. There was dirt tracked in from yesterday, still damp, faintly gray with a soft tint of orange from the leaves outside. Autumn was dragging itself in through the soles of my shoes.

My shoes were black. Polished, even though no one asked me to polish them. I did it because I assumed that’s what people did. I watched a man do it in a movie once, and everyone seemed to like him more. I figured it was worth trying.

I rubbed the sleep from my eyes even though I wasn’t tired. I rarely was. It’s just what people do. If I skipped it, someone might notice. Might ask if I was okay. That would be worse than anything. I don’t want concern. I don’t want attention. I just want silence that doesn’t feel like a punishment.

My mother was in the kitchen, humming. She wore a navy blue sweater that was slightly too big for her, and her earrings were shaped like little moons. She’d had those for years. I knew the exact scratch on the left one where she dropped it on the driveway and stepped on it without realizing.

I sat down at the table with her, even though I didn’t want to. She offered eggs, overcooked toast, and a forced smile. I accepted it with an empty nod. I’d memorized the rhythm of her conversations, the cues she wanted me to respond to. I never strayed from the script. Not because I wanted to please her—but because rewriting someone’s expectations was exhausting. And I already wake up tired.

She said something about school. I answered with a yes. I don’t remember the question. It was Wednesday. Midweek. Everyone else was already halfway to the weekend, counting the days like it was something to be proud of. As if Friday was freedom.

To me, it was just another room. Another face. Another string of empty conversations.

People talk. They talk so much it fills every space with static. At some point I started seeing them as an endless voice with shifting faces. Like mannequins with sound—each one tuned slightly different, but always to the same song.

They have the same thoughts. Same fears. Same manufactured morals they cling to when they want to feel superior. I’ve watched them cry over strangers dying in a movie, then step over a bleeding pigeon in the street like it was a stain. Their compassion is inconsistent. Their empathy selective.

They say murder is evil. But if you press them—if you make them choose—they will weigh a stranger’s life against their comfort and almost always choose comfort. They call it survival. I call it boredom with honesty.

So no, I don’t care about evil. I don’t care about good. I don’t care about anything that doesn’t affect me directly. And even when it does—I weigh the effort. If someone were bleeding on the sidewalk, twitching, screaming for help… would it matter if I stopped it? Millions die every day. I could save one, maybe. But that would take energy. Then the talking would begin. “You’re a hero.” “You did a good thing.” The spotlight would burn. People would expect me to do it again.

No thanks. I’m not a hero. I’m not a villain. I’m just here.

School was already calling me back—same desks, same hallway smells, same fake small talk. I was already dressing for it when I realized I hadn’t said more than ten real words all morning. I never did.

I’ll throw that party. Not because I want to. But because blending in works better when you hold the strings.

I looked down at the reflection in the spoon. My face was upside down and stretched, warped by the curve of the metal. Even that seemed more honest than the one I wear at school.

I stood and set the spoon down gently, careful not to let it clink. My mother hated loud noises in the morning—said it “set the tone wrong.” I didn’t care about her tone, but I’d learned early that it was better not to give her anything to complain about. Peace is easier when you’re invisible.

I left the house at 7:43. Same time every day. My shoes hit the sidewalk with a rhythm I’d memorized. Eight steps past the mailbox. Five past the uneven patch of grass. Then the bus stop.

A girl was already there. I didn’t know her name. I didn’t care to. She had dyed hair—striped green and purple today—and fake eyelashes that looked like they’d peel off with enough wind. She glanced at me when I arrived, then back down at her phone like I hadn’t registered.

That was fine. That was better.

The bus showed up three minutes late. It always did when the sky was overcast, like the clouds made everyone slower. I stepped on, counted two seats, and slid into the third. No one sat next to me. No one ever did.

From here I could watch them—“them,” the collective. They talked too loudly. Threw their limbs around like they had no weight. The boys in the back laughed about something violent—something about a video game or a dog getting hit by a truck. I didn’t listen close enough to catch the details. It all blurred together anyway.

School was a hive. A rotating maze of bodies and noise. I memorized the layout the first week I moved here—bathrooms, side exits, which lockers weren’t used, which teachers were predictable. Patterns are the only thing you can rely on in places like this. People may act wild, but they never change their roles. The bully. The quiet girl. The flirt. The loner. The try-hard. They wear their types like school uniforms.

No one really notices me unless I make them. And I prefer not to.

Except today—today there was a teacher who made eye contact too long. Ms. Heller. Literature. She asked me a question I wasn’t prepared for, and I gave her an answer I didn’t care about.

“Interesting,” she said, tilting her head like a bird. “You always have such… precise phrasing, Miles.”

I smiled, just slightly. Enough to be polite. Enough to stop the conversation from going further. She meant it as a compliment. But all I heard was, You’re different.

Different isn’t safe.

The rest of the day passed in seconds. In loops. I could’ve sworn the same girl tripped on the same backpack in the hallway three times. Could’ve sworn the announcements repeated a word. Could’ve sworn the world ran in circles and everyone else was just too distracted to see the seam in the script.

When I got home, I didn’t speak. Not even to my mom. She asked how my day was. I said “fine.” That was the only answer anyone ever wants.

In my room, I let the quiet in again.

My walls were pale gray. My bedspread navy. My desk white, legs slightly bent from when I kicked it once years ago. I remembered every crack, every crease, every imperfect thread. The mirror was slightly warped at the bottom corner, like it was melting.

I watched myself in that corner. Watched the way my face shifted slightly when I didn’t try to hold it still. I looked less like a person. More like a thought.

It was better this way.

I lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling until the texture patterns formed shapes. A face. A loop. A clock. A tunnel. They always did this. Even when I blinked, they came back.

Maybe that’s all this is—my life, a simple loop until I decide to change it. Until I change. But change is the furthest thing from what I would ever change. And so the world is unmoving and still as ever.

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