I wake up already tired, before my alarm even goes off.

Already tired of my friends who pretend I’m not there. Already tired of coming home to my parents telling me that my room is too messy and to get my grades up, because my grades are my whole worth, and I would never amount to anything unless I acted more like my siblings, my friends, or really anyone else. Already tired of my siblings running around the shared room, my little sister and I have, and when I tell them to stop, my brother says, “It’s her room too!”

The room is still dark and smells like the cinnamon roll candle I always light before bed. I stare at the ceiling, tracing faint shadows that sometimes look like shapes, but now it’s mostly nothing I can make out. When I was younger, those shadows looked like unicorns, and I hope that if I look hard enough, I’ll be able to find one again.

At seven, I was almost positive unicorns were real. Not the way people claim things are real—through facts or evidence—but the way you know the sky will be there when you look up, or the grass will be green when you look down. Or brown, if you had parents who didn’t pay much attention to how the lawn looked at all. I knew unicorns hid in quiet places, between tall trees where the breeze was light, behind fog, where faint rainbows appeared alongside moments when the world felt kind for no reason.

My favorite place to go was the patch of woods near my house that I was told repeatedly not to go into. I would bring my glittery notebook with cracks on the cover and drawings of white horses with twisted horns and uneven wings. I wrote notes to them in pink marker, asking where they went when the snow started to fall. I asked if they could bring me with them, if they could show me their home, and what it looked like on the inside. I left my notebook on the windowsill just in case they wanted to pick it up at night and write back. I stayed up late, sitting at the edge of my bed, hoping that if I looked hard enough, I would finally see one.

Of course, I never did.

It feels like nothing is real anymore. Believing in things like unicorns feels embarrassing now. The house is too loud in a quiet way—doors slammed too hard, sighs that stretch too long, and comments that “weren’t meant to hurt” but always do. My parents don’t yell much. Instead, they speak in disappointment, jokes that land like truth, and sometimes something that feels like regret for even having me.

I nod when they talk because I’ve learned it ends conversations faster. Explaining only ever makes things worse.

I’ve learned that dinner isn’t about food. It’s about posture, tone, answering quickly and clearly, and saying things without sounding rehearsed. My mother watches me the way someone watches a mess they didn’t make but still expects someone else to clean up.

“Izzy, did you do anything today? Anything?”

“I had school,” I say, pinching my arm because I know my tone is off.

My father sighs loudly, like the air itself is disappointing him. “School isn’t an accomplishment. Everyone has to do it.”

I focus on cutting my steak. I need to cry, but nothing comes out. I know I should be crying because of my parents, but instead, my stomach tightens because I wasn’t supposed to eat today. I knew the number on the scale needed to go down.

“You used to be so bright,” my mom says casually. “Now, all you know how to do is eat. I mean, have you seen yourself? That has to be at least ten pounds since the year started.”

I try to explain, but before I can, my siblings come down the stairs.

“How was your day, my babies?” my parents ask. They’re eager to tell them everything.

I can’t imagine being eager to tell my parents—or anyone else—anything.

My dad taps my shoulder lightly. “Why don’t you go upstairs, since everything is such a big emotional event for you?”

I go up, holding back tears, wondering why I can’t just be normal. They didn’t hit me. They paid the bills, bought me almost everything I asked for, and kept the water running. I list everything I am in my head: inconsiderate, overly sensitive, careless, useless.

I want to disappear. Or even better, die.

Before I close my eyes and pray to God not to wake me up in the morning for the fifth night in a row, I look at the ceiling, hoping to find what feels like the last thing taken from me. Instead, all I see is dust falling from my ceiling fan. I look toward the window and see the notebook that hasn’t been picked up since I was seven years old. I pull the blanket over my head and let it soak up my tears.

I wake up the next morning, and my eyes are puffy and heavy. The house is already awake. I hear spoons clinking against mugs, cabinets opening and closing, and the low hum of the local news channel playing downstairs. I stay still for a moment, hoping that if I don’t move, the day won’t notice me.

My blanket is slightly damp from the night before, twisted around my feet. I sit up. Everything looks blurry, untouched—like it’s been frozen in time for years. My backpack leans against the wall, half-zipped, with the math test I failed last week peeking through. I catch my reflection in the mirror and barely recognize myself. My back is slouched like I’m reaching for something I can’t grab. My eyelids hang heavy, swollen with sleep and tears.

I get dressed without thinking, pulling on clothes that are warm and comfortable. Downstairs, my siblings are laughing at something I’ll never know about—probably an inside joke. I pour myself water into a white mug stained with old coffee and drink it too fast, ignoring the ache in my stomach. My mom tells me to hurry. No one notices I didn’t touch my eggs. Or maybe they do, and just don’t say anything.

Outside, the air is cold and frizzy, and my hair brushes against my face. I count the cracks in the sidewalk as I walk to the bus stop, the same way I did when I was little. Across the street, the woods wait. For a moment, I want to step inside and find the tallest tree, just to see if anything is hiding there.

The bus pulls up. I look away.

I sit in the same seat I always do and put my headphones on, resting my head against the window as houses blur past.

At school, I walk past people but never close enough for anyone to notice me. Everyone talks like they already know what comes next for them. I sit in the back of my art class, which I’m failing. I open my sketchbook and start doodling—half-formed wings, a crooked horn.

My teacher walks by. I try to hide the drawing before she can see it.

“That’s a great start,” she says brightly.

I like her. She’s kind—the kind of person who notices when you’re not okay, even if you’re smiling.

“Thank you,” I say carefully, making sure I don’t sound too interested or too distant. She smiles and pats my shoulder before walking away.

The bell rings for lunch, the last period of the day. I spend it in the bathroom, scrolling on my phone.

I decided to walk home instead of taking the bus. It takes longer, but I don’t mind. I pass the woods again, and they look darker now—like a door I left open for myself but never came back to. I stare for a moment, then turn away and keep walking until I reach my front door.

That night, everything is the way it always is—loud but quiet. Like a house, but not quite a home. I stare at the ceiling, and the shadows don’t move. I don’t expect them to anymore. I think about how there’s nothing I can do about a house that doesn’t feel like a home—not until two years from now, when I turn eighteen.

I get out of bed and walk over to the light switch. Before turning it off, I reach for the windowsill. The notebook is still there, its cover more cracked than I remember, the glitter dulled with age. I open it carefully, like it might fall apart in my hands. Inside are the drawings I made when I was seven—white horses with twisted horns, wings that never quite matched. The questions I asked them are still written in pink marker.

Where do you go when it snows?
 Can I come with you?

They never answered. I know that now. But I think about how sure I was that they could have. I squeeze the notebook tightly and realize that believing didn’t make me stupid or weak. It meant there was a time in my life when I believed the world would be kind. I waited not because I was foolish, but because I wanted to stay.

Later, I lie back down and don’t pray to wake up. Instead, I thank God that I picked up the notebook again. I stare at the ceiling where unicorns used to live and let myself breathe. Outside, the woods stand dark and still, like they always have.

I don’t know if I’ll ever step back into them.
 I don’t know a lot of things.

But I do know one thing.

I believe in unicorns.