#always alone

I wake to the rumble of thunder and the soft patter of rain against my bedroom window. Rolling over in bed, I pull the blanket to my shoulders and stare out into the storm. Lightning flashes across the sky, and the rumble of the gods reminds me what day it is.

“It always rains on my birthday,” I mumble to myself, still watching the rain fall from the darkened sky.

Pushing the blankets away, I climb out of bed and walk toward the window. Rain pours from the sky in endless sheets, the trees outside swaying like dancers in the storm. Their branches stretch toward the heavens as if offering a sacrifice to the gods themselves.

“Maybe they are,” I whisper. “Maybe they’re sacrificing me to the gods everyone fears.”

I take a slow breath before turning away from the window and walking toward my bedroom door, leaving the storm behind—though not the misery of my life.

I step into the dimly lit hallway, the floorboards creaking beneath my feet. As I make my way toward the stairs, hushed voices drift from the kitchen below.

“They’re going to come for her. You can’t keep hiding her from her destiny forever.” My aunt’s raspy voice carries easily through the quiet house and straight to my already sensitive ears.

“I know,” my mother whispers, her voice trembling. “I just wish I could keep them away from her.”

A chill races down my spine.

The “them” they’re talking about is the Alpha and the rest of the pack.

We are the outcasts.

My father used to be important. He was the Alpha’s omega—trusted, respected, loyal. Until the night he turned against him.

The Alpha wanted me dead.

They all did.

They said I was a disgrace. That I was nothing. They claimed they couldn’t feel my wolf, that no wolf lived inside me at all. And because of that, they believed I should die before I could become a threat.

But they were wrong.

I could feel her.

I told my father that the night everything changed. I remember the way hope flashed across his face before rage consumed him. That’s why he attacked the Alpha. That’s why my father is dead.

And why my mother and I live hidden away on the outskirts of town.

My father made a deal with the Alpha that night.

His life for mine.

Now that I’m eighteen, my wolf is ready to reveal herself. I can feel her pacing restlessly beneath my skin, desperate to finally be seen. She wants to show herself to me—to the world—but she can’t. Not until the Alpha and the pack come for me.

That’s what my mother and aunt were arguing about downstairs.

I have to wait. I have to keep her under control until the time comes. That was part of the deal my father made the night he died.

Most wolves don’t awaken until their eighteenth birthday anyway, but my wolf has been stirring for years. Restless. Angry. Tired of hiding in the shadows.

She wants freedom.

She wants respect.

She wants to drag us from the outskirts and back into the world of wolves where we belong.

But I don’t want that.

I want to leave this pack behind forever and escape the misery they created for my family.

My mother has spent years protecting me, sacrificing everything to keep me hidden from them. But now it’s my turn to protect us.

And maybe the only way to do that… is to leave.

I make my way down the stairs, the hushed voices of my mother and aunt falling silent the moment they hear me coming. As I reach the bottom step, my eyes drift to the kitchen table where they sit across from each other, steaming coffee cups clutched in their hands.

My aunt’s hands are smooth and polished, untouched by hard labor.

My mother’s are rough and worn, weathered from years spent beneath the scorching sun tending the garden that keeps us alive.

Living on the outskirts isn’t easy. There are no real shops nearby, no easy way to survive out here. My aunt and uncle bring us supplies whenever they can, but most of the time my mother does whatever she must to make sure we have enough food to eat and wood to keep the house warm.

And all of it—every sacrifice, every hardship—was because of me.

“Good morning,” I mumble as I make my way toward the pantry.

The old door creaks loudly on its hinges as I pull it open. My eyes scan the nearly bare shelves, silently hoping there’s at least something left to eat.

Nothing.

With a sigh, I let the pantry door swing shut and take a small step back, my gaze lingering on the worn wood as I lower my head.

I just wish this wasn’t my life.

It isn’t fair that this is how we have to live.

“Good morning, sweetheart.” My aunt’s raspy voice sounds behind me, making me jump slightly. “How did you sleep?”

“I slept well,” I reply quietly, turning to face them.

Both women are already watching me.

My mother’s brown eyes are filled with exhaustion, while my aunt’s bright blue ones study me carefully.

You would never guess they were sisters with how different they look.

My aunt is beautiful in a way that turns heads. Long platinum-blonde hair falls in perfect waves around her shoulders, contrasting against her sun-kissed skin. Her full lips and striking blue eyes, framed by thick black lashes, make her look more like royalty than someone related to us. She towers over my mother by at least six inches, standing close to six feet tall while my mother barely reaches five-four.

My mother is the opposite.

She’s rail thin, her wavy black hair hanging limply around her shoulders. Years spent working beneath the harsh sun have left her skin weathered and rough, almost like worn leather. The light in her brown eyes faded long ago, replaced by nothing but exhaustion and grief.

People say I look more like my mother than my father, but honestly, I couldn’t even tell you what my father looked like. The only memories I have of him are stories whispered in the dark and the ache in my mother’s eyes whenever his name is mentioned.

I stand at five-six, with curves my mother never had. My skin carries the same sun-kissed tan as hers, but that’s where our similarities end. Her hair falls in loose waves, while mine is pin-straight and dark as night, reaching all the way to my mid-back.

But it’s my eyes that make people stare.

One is brown.

The other is blue.

Both are framed by long dark lashes like my aunt’s, making the difference even more striking. My aunt once told me my eyes were a blessing from the gods.

voices rising, falling, all around,

laughter spilling like it’s free—

but none of it belongs to me.

Faces blur, a moving sea,

eyes that look but never see,

I drift between each passing word,

a ghost where conversations stir.

Hands brush past me, warm and real,

yet I’m untouched in how I feel,

like I’m made of quieter air,

present, breathing—never there.

They fill the space, they fill the night,

but something in me won’t ignite,

a hollow echo softly grown,

the loudest silence I have known.

And even here, where I should be found,

I fade into the crowded sound—

a lonely thought, a hidden plea:

how can I feel so unseen,