Chapter 2

It felt as if my entire windpipe was being squeezed shut from the inside.

I knelt on the floor, my fingers clawing at my throat, my nails digging deep into my skin. But nothing came out. My chest felt like it was stuffed with red-hot iron, burning and exploding from the inside.

I wanted to cry out for my mom. My mouth opened, but only faint gasps escaped. No air went in.

Leo stood in front of me, cradling the robot inhaler in his arms. It had a white plastic shell and a blue breathing light on its belly.

I had charged it for two hours last night. Now, the blue light blinked in his hands, casting a rhythmic glow.

He looked down at me, his lips curving into a smirk.

"Stella, you’re faking it, right? My mom said you love to play pretend."

He held the robot high, waving it toward his father. "Dad, look! It lights up!"

Richard was leaning back on the sofa, a cigarette dangling from his lips. He didn’t even raise his eyelids. "Alright, bring it over. Let Dad have a look."

Leo ran past me, the toe of his shoe scraping my arm. I collapsed sideways onto the floor, my head hitting the tile with a dull thud. It hurt. But compared to the suffocating agony in my chest, this pain was nothing.

I crawled on the floor, my fingers stretching forward. The blue spray bottle was lying next to the table leg, having slipped out of my pocket when I was pushed. It was less than three steps away.

I crawled one step closer.

Richard’s foot extended, kicking the spray deep under the sofa.

"Still acting," he exhaled a cloud of smoke, ashes falling onto the floor. "Girls are so dramatic. Leo, don't learn from your sister. She’s always putting on a show."

Leo giggled.

My fingers couldn't reach the spray anymore. The dust from under the sofa billowed out, coughing into my nose. I coughed once, then twice, and each cough squeezed my remaining airway even tighter.

"Mom."

"Mom, please look at me."

My mother walked out of the kitchen, holding a plate of sliced apples. Seeing me sprawled on the floor, her eyebrows knitted together. I knew that look too well—it wasn't worry. It was annoyance.

"Stella, what is it this time?"

I couldn't speak. I pointed toward the bottom of the sofa, my fingers trembling violently.

Leo spoke up first. "Mom, Stella said she wants her robot back. But you just gave it to me."

His voice was soft, his eyes wide as he looked at my mother. I could never master that innocent expression. I only knew how to stay silent, keep my head down, and say "I’m fine."

My mother set the plate of apples on the coffee table, then bent down to lift Leo onto her lap.

He leaned into her chest, the robot resting on his knees, its blue light flashing.

"Stella, you’re fifteen years old," my mother scolded. "Stealing things from a five-year-old child? Have you no shame?"

My finger was still pointing under the sofa.

"Mom, the spray. It’s under there."

"Here we go again," Richard stubbed his cigarette out in the ashtray. "Every time things don't go her way, she plays dead on the floor.

Your mother might tolerate this, but I won't. If you want to lie there, go ahead. Just don't ruin our dinner."

He stood up, took a slice of apple, and stuffed it into his mouth.

As he walked past me, his foot kicked my leg, telling me to get out of the way.

My leg was shoved aside, and it slowly curled back. It wasn't by choice; my body was shaking uncontrollably.

My mother glanced at me.

Just one glance.

Then she turned her head back, feeding an apple slice to Leo and wiping the juice from his chin with a tissue.

"Mom, isn't Stella going to eat dinner?" Leo asked.

"Ignore her," my mother’s voice came from the kitchen as she set the table. "When she gets hungry enough, she’ll crawl up on her own."

"When I get hungry enough, I'll crawl up on my own."

I lay on the cold tiles, the chill seeping into my bones. Outside, the sky was still bright. It was a summer evening, and the setting sun bathed the living room in a warm, golden hue.

On the TV stand sat a framed family portrait—Richard, my mother, and Leo. The three of them, smiling perfectly.

Without me.

That photo was taken last Christmas.

That day, my mother made me wear a bright red sweater, saying it looked festive.

I put it on. But when we arrived at the photo studio, Richard saw me and frowned. "Why did she come too?"

My mother said nothing.

The photographer told the mother and son to lean closer. The father wrapped his arm around the mother, and the son stood in front.

I stood on the very edge. The photographer said, "Sweetie, move closer to the center." My mother replied, "No need. Just take it like this."

The shutter clicked, and I was cropped out.