Morning Check
At the group home, the day always began the same: the sound of keys jingling down the hall. A staff member — sometimes Mr. Greene with his booming voice, sometimes Ms. Peters with her tired patience — would knock on each door at seven sharp.
"Up and moving, boys. Chores in ten."
Jayden hated mornings, but he hated being the last one downstairs even more. It gave the others one more reason to target him. So he dragged himself out of bed, folded the blanket tight, and slipped on his hoodie.
Downstairs, the kitchen smelled faintly of burnt toast and bleach. A tray of oatmeal sat on the counter — always the same gray, lumpy kind.
"Eat quick," Mr. Greene barked. "You got five minutes before chores."
Jayden ate silently, spoon scraping against the bowl. Terrence sat across from him, smirking over his own breakfast, but Jayden didn't look up. Not today.
---
Chores and Tension
Chores rotated each week. Jayden's was sweeping the common room. He didn't mind — it was quiet work, and it let him zone out.
The other boys were louder, grumbling about trash duty or scrubbing bathrooms. Every slam of a broom or bucket was a protest.
"Scrap thinks he's staff now," Terrence muttered as Jayden swept. "Look at him go."
The laughter stung, but Jayden kept his head down.
If there was one thing the system had taught him, it was that sometimes silence was stronger than fists.
---
School Pressure, Again
At school, the weight of his file followed him everywhere. Teachers gave him looks that said don't try me. Students gave him looks that said freak.
In math class, he sat in the back, doodling in the margins. The numbers blurred, but the sketchbook kept him steady.
During group work, no one chose him. He was always the extra, the one who got paired with whichever kid was absent that day. It made his chest ache — not with anger this time, but with that quiet loneliness that never really went away.
---
Small Kindness
Back at the group home that evening, Ms. Peters called him into the office. She was one of the few staff who spoke gently.
"You've had a rough few weeks," she said. "But I've noticed you've been trying. You didn't fight back this morning when Terrence pushed. That matters."
Jayden shrugged, eyes low. "Didn't feel like losing my place here."
She smiled faintly. "Or maybe you're learning you don't have to fight every battle. That's growth, Jayden."
The words stayed with him longer than he expected.
---
Nighttime Thoughts
Lights out was at nine, but Jayden rarely slept right away. He lay in bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to the hum of the old heater and the whispers of the boys down the hall.
He pulled his sketchbook out from under the mattress and flipped to the page where he'd drawn the crooked heart for Tasha. He touched it lightly, like it might disappear.
For the first time in a long time, he thought maybe the rules didn't just cage him. Maybe they gave him something to push against — a shape for the anger, a reason to draw, a reason to keep trying.
Still, as he closed the book and tucked it away, one thought echoed louder than the rest:
I'm surviving. But when do I start living?