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It’s not fair.
You were born with his eyes, his hands, and his goddamn temper.
You never asked for any of it. Never wanted to be the kind of girl who clenches her fists before she thinks, whose voice gets loud when she’s scared, who knows how to hurt someone just by aiming the right word like a weapon.
Nobody loves an angry girl.
Not the way they love the quiet ones. The soft-spoken ones. The ones who fold themselves into corners and smile when they’re spoken over. The ones who cry instead of scream.
You learned that early.
You got called difficult before you could even spell it. Feisty, like it was cute until it wasn’t. Too much. Too loud. Too sharp.
When boys were angry, they were passionate. When you were angry, you were a problem.
So you tried to mute it. Swallowed it like glass. Bit your tongue so hard it bled. You learned how to smile with your teeth clenched, how to laugh through your throat closing up.
But it still lived there. That heat. That fire. That spark in your chest that looked an awful lot like his.
Your father never hid his anger. He wore it like armor. And you told yourself, I won’t be like him. I’ll be better. Softer. Kinder.
But sometimes the world presses just the right bruise, and the fury comes boiling up. Quick. Mean. Righteous.
And suddenly you’re thirteen again, throwing words like knives. Watching people flinch. Watching them leave.
Because nobody loves an angry girl.
Not really.
They might admire her. Fear her. Use her. Quote her.
But they don’t stay.
And when they go, they don’t blame themselves. They blame the fire. The edge in your voice. The sharpness in your stare.
They never ask what made you this way.
Just, why couldn’t you calm down?
And you ask yourself that too, in the quiet after. Sitting alone in the wreckage of another too-much moment. Staring at your reflection, seeing his jawline, your mother’s eyes, and something in between that neither of them knows how to love.
You want to be loved.
But the world doesn’t make room for angry girls.
So you fold the rage into something quieter.
But it’s still there.
It always will be.
It’s there—under your skin, in your blood—the way some kids inherit allergies or bad knees. Yours is rage. Not the hot, stupid kind that flares and fades. His kind. Cold. Coiled. Waiting.
And the worst part? You understand it.
You understand why he left. Why he threw things. Why he shut down instead of talking, why he’d rather burn a bridge than risk walking over it and falling through. You get it, because you’ve felt it in yourself. That impulse to destroy instead of deal. To snap before someone else can.
And every time it rises in you, every time your chest gets tight and your throat locks up and your jaw sets just like his, a part of you goes cold.
Because it doesn’t matter how hard you try to be patient, or gentle, or better. That fire still flickers under your ribs.
You don’t want to be like him. You refuse to be like him.
But you are. Sometimes.
And no one tells you how lonely that is—to hate something in someone and still see it in yourself every time you look in the mirror.
To know you came from someone broken, and that brokenness didn’t skip you.
To be a girl who got her father’s fury and was told her whole life that girls should be soft.
You’re trying.
God, you’re always trying.
You’re sitting across from your father, a half-eaten meal between you. It was her idea—lunch together, like normal people, she said, voice bright and strained. You knew it wouldn’t be normal. Nothing with him ever is.
He hasn’t changed. Still dresses like the world’s done him wrong. Still wears bitterness in his posture. Still eyes everything like it might fall apart. Especially you.
He watches the way you cut your food. The way you sit, shoulders squared. The way your voice doesn’t rise but carries weight anyway.
Then he does it. That thing he always does.
A snide little comment.
“You’ve got a tone just like mine when you’re trying to prove you’re right.”
You pause, fork mid-air.
Your mom glances between you both like she’s watching a glass start to crack.
“I wasn’t trying to prove anything,” you say, carefully.
He snorts. “You don’t even hear yourself. That’s the problem.”
You set the fork down. Deliberate. “Maybe the problem is that you hear yourself in me and you can’t stand it.”
That lands. His eyes narrow. A muscle in his jaw tightens.
And then he says it—not loud, not yet. Just low. Poisoned.
“I knew it was a mistake letting your mom raise you on her own. She gave you all the feelings and none of the spine.”
Your mom drops her napkin. “Enough.”
But it’s already too late. Something shifts in the air—something old and ugly that’s lived in your bones longer than you’ve had words for it.
You lean forward, voice shaking, but not with fear.
“You think I don’t have spine? I survived you.”
He stands so fast the chair scrapes back hard.
“Oh, you think you’re brave now?” he snaps. “You think because you raise your voice and puff out your chest like you’re someone, that makes you strong?”
“I think I learned from the best.” Your voice cuts now, no longer careful. “All this rage you hate in me—it’s yours. You built it. You handed it to me like a birthright.”
Glass. Fracturing.
Your mom’s trying to speak, trying to stop it, but the room’s already burning.
He points at you, trembling. “You talk like you’ve got it figured out, but you’re just a child playing at being something real. And when the world chews you up, don’t come running to me. I tried to warn you.”
“No. You tried to break me so you wouldn’t have to look at what you made.”
There’s the sound of a glass being knocked off the table. Shattering.
Your mom’s crying now — voice cracking, yelling at both of you. “Calm down! Just stop it, both of you!”
But neither of you can. Because this has been coming for years. Because neither of you knows how to back down when you feel small. Because you are his daughter.
And he hates that.
Because deep down, he knows he gave you the worst of himself.
And you’re the only one who ever dared to throw it back in his face.
But some days, the effort feels like holding your breath underwater. And other days, the anger wins.
And when it does, you wonder if he ever tried this hard at all.
Sero walks up the steps to your place with one hand in his hoodie pocket, a lazy rhythm in his step. It’s supposed to be just a hangout — Mina texted the group chat that you were free this afternoon, said you seemed like you needed it. He figured maybe he’d show up early, keep you company for a bit before the others rolled through.
But he doesn’t get to knock.
Because he hears it.
Not through the door—through the walls.
A man’s voice, low and thunderous. Words all cracked like they’ve been shouted too many times before. Something slams, loud and sharp—glass, probably. Then your voice, raised to meet his, something jagged in it that Sero’s never heard from you. Not at school. Not with the squad.
Not with them.
And then your mom, desperate, pleading, “Calm down! Both of you, please!”
The next smash makes Sero flinch.
His hand’s already on the doorknob.
His first instinct is to go in. To do something. He’s not sure what—pull you out? Break it up? Just be there, maybe, even if it means standing between you and that man who sounded like he could snap the world in half with one breath.
But he doesn’t move.
Because suddenly, he remembers something: the way you dig your fingernails into your palms when you think no one’s looking. The way you sometimes laugh a second too late, like you’re still talking yourself down from something no one else saw. The way your smile fades when you think you’re not being watched.
He thought you were just tired. Overworked. Carrying too much like everyone does.
He didn’t know you were boiling underneath.
He didn’t know the steam was coming from home.
Inside, the yelling dips for a second—just a second—and he hears your voice, lower this time, trembling. Like you’re trying not to cry or trying not to explode.
It’s worse than the screaming.
Sero takes a breath, lets go of the doorknob.
He steps back.
His heart’s hammering. He doesn’t know the rules here—if there even are rules. All he knows is that if he walks in now, you might never look at him the same way. And maybe that’s not his choice to make.
But he doesn’t leave.
He walks down to the curb, sits on the edge of the sidewalk, elbows on his knees.
And he waits.
Not to be a hero. Not to interfere.
Just to be close.
Just in case you need someone when it’s over.
You step back from the table. Not fast, not dramatic. Just done.
You hear him mutter something under his breath, but you don’t care what it is. You’ve already stopped listening.
Your mom moves toward him, like always — hands up, smoothing things over. And that’s when she says it, again. Like a reflex.
“I don’t know where she gets it from.”
She’s already reaching for the bottle when she says it.
Already refilling his glass.
That part always makes your stomach turn—the way she treats his rage like a wound she has to tend. Like it’s your fault for stepping on it. Like you’re the one who cracked the glass, made his hands shake, raised your voice when all you were trying to do was stand your ground.
It’s like she thinks if you’d just stayed quiet, none of this would’ve happened. If you’d just been like her, soft and accommodating, he would’ve been calm. Gentle. Bearable.
But you’re not her.
You never were.
And you’re done pretending you want to be.
So you don’t go to your room. You don’t stay in the house with all its ghosts and broken patterns and wine-soaked excuses.
You leave.
You walk past the kitchen like you don’t hear them still talking—your mother’s whispery pleas, his grumbling, the sharp edge of your name. You grab your hoodie from the hook by the door and step outside.
The sun’s still out. It shouldn’t be. It feels wrong, somehow—for it to be this bright after something like that.
But maybe the world doesn’t stop for your disasters. Maybe that’s the only mercy it gives you.
You walk. Down the street. Around the corner. Anywhere. Just away.
The air out here doesn’t feel like it’s pressing against your chest.
Out here, you can breathe.
And you don’t even realize you’re crying until the wind dries your cheeks.
Your footsteps are heavier than they should be. Every part of you feels too full—lungs, throat, hands—like you’re still holding onto something that hasn’t finished happening.
The street is mostly empty. Wind skips through the gutters, stirring dry leaves into little spirals. You don’t know where you’re going. You just know it’s not back there.
Then you see him.
Sero.
Sitting on the curb, just across from your house.
Feet planted in a pile of wind-scattered leaves. Hoodie sleeves pushed up. Arms resting on his knees. Looking down the street like he’s not really looking at anything at all.
You freeze.
And somehow—he looks up. Right then. Like he knew.
His eyes find yours, and he doesn’t startle or pretend he wasn’t there. He just sees you. Really sees you.
And something in your chest cracks, not like glass—but like a window finally opening.
He stands up slowly, hands in his pockets, not rushing.
You don’t speak. You can’t, not yet.
But you don’t turn away either.
You cross the street.
He doesn’t ask what happened. Doesn’t press. Just says, voice low and steady. “You okay?”
You shake your head. Not no, exactly. Just not yet.
And then, like it’s the most natural thing in the world, he shifts his weight and says, “Wanna sit with me a while?”
And you do.
You sit beside him. On the curb. In the leaves. In the kind of silence that doesn’t feel like punishment.
The kind that feels like breathing.
The kind that makes space.
And for the first time in what feels like forever, you don’t feel alone with your anger.
You just feel seen.
The curb is cold beneath you. The leaves crackle if you shift too much, so you stay still. Next to Sero. Neither of you talking yet. You can hear your heartbeat in your ears, like your body hasn’t caught up to the fact that you’re safe now. Out.
He doesn’t look at you, just picks up a leaf and folds it in half. Then again. Then again. Until it crumbles in his hands.
“You were right there, huh?” you say, voice flat. Not accusing. Just tired.
He nods. “Didn’t mean to spy or anything. I came early. Heard stuff.”
You nod too. That’s all you can do at first.
You can feel it bubbling up again—the thing you just left behind. The heat behind your eyes. The pressure in your chest. But when you glance sideways, Sero’s just sitting there. Still. Solid. Not scared. Not weird about it.
He says, “You don’t have to talk about it.”
You pause. “I kind of want to.”
Another leaf crumbles between his fingers. “Okay.”
You run your thumb across the seam of your jeans. “I hate him.”
There’s a beat of silence.
“Yeah,” Sero says. “I think I would too.”
“He comes and goes. Says all this shit, and she just lets him. Like it’s normal. Like I’m the one ruining everything by reacting.”
You glance at him again. He’s listening. Really listening. That calm he always carries isn’t fake —it just makes room.
“She always says, ‘let him have his moment, it’ll be over soon.’” Your mouth twists. “Like that makes it okay.”
Sero nods slowly. “She wants it to end without a mess. But you’re the one that has to hold it.”
You blink. That was it—that’s what it feels like. Carrying someone else’s explosions like they’re your responsibility.
You press your hands into your thighs, trying to keep steady. “I get so angry, sometimes. Like, really angry. I can feel it in my teeth. It makes me want to break things.”
“You don’t,” he says. Not a question.
“No.” You swallow. “But I want to. And sometimes, I think maybe I’m just like him. Maybe I already lost.”
Sero is quiet for a moment.
“I’ve seen you hold your tongue. I’ve seen you sit on your hands. I’ve seen you get quiet when someone else would’ve snapped. That’s not nothing,” he finally says.
You look down at your fingers. They’re still shaking a little.
He goes on. “You’re angry. Yeah. But you’re not cruel.”
That lands hard. It settles in your chest like warmth instead of fire.
“I don’t want to be like him,” you say.
“You’re not,” Sero says. “You’re you. You’re fighting it. That’s the difference. You’re fighting.”
Your throat tightens. You don’t know what to say to that. “I didn’t know you’d be here.”
“I didn’t either.” He shrugs. “But when I heard the yelling, I couldn’t walk away. I didn’t want you to come out and have no one.”
You look at him. Really look.
And for the first time today, your chest doesn’t feel like it’s caving in.
“Thank you,” you whisper.
Sero grins, soft and crooked. “Anytime.”
And you sit there.
Two kids on the curb, in the leaves, under a sky that hasn’t changed. But something in you has.