Chapter Fifteen - Harper's Diary

Rain tapped gently at the windowpane, threading through the hush of the house like a lullaby for the restless. The sky outside was already dark, typical for late October, the streetlamp casting pale amber shadows across Harper's room. She sat curled beneath a thick grey knit blanket on her bed, a diary resting on her knees. Aura was at a friend's house for the night, Jackson was with his older friends and the silence felt unusually heavy, like the walls themselves were listening.

The Baldwin house was rarely quiet. But now, with the absence of her siblings' voices for the night and the low rumble of the TV downstairs, Harper was left alone with something far more unsettling: her own thoughts.

She stared down at the diary. It hadn't been touched since before her last stay at Warren. The pink ink was still slightly smudged in places, a testament to the crying she'd often done while writing in it. Her name was doodled in swirls on the front, alongside silly inside jokes and heart shapes from a time that felt light-years away.

She flipped it open, skimming through old entries like she was reading a stranger's story. Pages filled with names of boys she'd once obsessed over. Dylan from art class with the freckled nose. Benji, the shy pianist from assembly. Lucas, who once shared his crisps during detention. Her writing had been so animated back then—rambly, excited, full of butterflies and daydreams.

But now?

Now, she just felt... unsure.

Harper sighed and closed the book, hugging it against her chest as she sank deeper into the mattress. Her school life had always felt like something she was watching through a glass wall. In and out of classrooms. In and out of Warren. Therapy appointments during lunchtime, teachers pulling her aside with tight-lipped sympathy. She'd spent half of last year online, propped up in her bedroom at Warren with worksheets emailed over and deadlines that didn't care whether or not she was mentally present.

She hadn't wanted to fall behind. The thought of repeating a year—being labeled the girl who "couldn't keep up"—was unbearable. Especially in her family. So she kept going. Quietly. Invisibly. Some days she couldn't even remember what she'd studied. It was all survival.

Her classmates had moved on without her. Friend groups solidified in her absence. Jokes were made that she didn't understand. Even when she returned to school full-time, she still felt like a ghost brushing through the halls.

Except—there was that one night. Camille's birthday party.

Harper had smiled. Actually smiled. For the first time in a long time.

She hadn't been able to stop thinking about her since.

And that was the problem.

Harper pulled the blanket tighter. This was different. She'd had crushes before, but they were always fleeting—a scribble in her diary, a giggle and something safe and socially expected. But with Josie, it was like someone had turned a key she didn't know existed.

She couldn't even say the word to herself.

Like.

Like - like.

A girl.

Her stomach twisted.

What would her parents say? Her mom would probably pretend to be supportive but make some weird joke about "experimenting." Her dad would avoid the topic altogether. But it was her grandmother—Cece—that haunted her thoughts.

Cece believed in tradition. In elegance, perfection, and the Baldwin name. She spoke like love was only valid if it fit into a curated photo album. And Harper already felt like she was balancing on the edge of being a disappointment. Talking about this?

Her grandmother would never understand.

Harper lay back, staring at the glow-in-the-dark stars still stuck to the ceiling. She was almost seventeen and still afraid of disappointing people who didn't really see her.

What if she told them and it changed everything? What if it wasn't even real?

What if this was just confusion? Loneliness? Curiosity?

But then she'd remember Josie's voice, her laugh, the way her hand had brushed Harper's arm like it was nothing—but it had meant something.

Harper closed her eyes.

Maybe she didn't need to tell anyone yet. Maybe she didn't even need to decide what label to use. Maybe it was enough—just for tonight—to admit that this feeling was real, that something inside her was shifting.

She'd spent so much of her life feeling like an outsider. Maybe this was another part of herself she was still learning to welcome.

With a sigh, Harper shut the diary and rubbed her hands over her face. Her body felt heavy, tired, but her mind wouldn't quiet down. It hadn't for days.

She crept out of bed and tiptoed across the floor. The floorboards creaked gently under her weight, familiar in a way that only made her feel more alone. She slipped into the hallway, arms wrapped tight around her hoodie to shield against the house's chill.

Downstairs, the living room was dim but warm with flickering light. Her parents were sitting on opposite ends of the couch, a movie playing between them. Harper couldn't tell what it was—some drama, probably—but neither of them seemed particularly interested. Camila had a glass of red wine balanced in one hand and a phone in the other, occasionally scrolling. Thomas sat with his arms folded, eyes glazed, distracted but pretending not to be.

Harper stood at the edge of the hallway for a moment, unseen.

Her fingers tightened around the sleeves of her hoodie. She thought—maybe. Just maybe she could go in and sit with them. She didn't even care what the movie was. She just wanted to feel a part of something. To exist near them, instead of orbiting around them like a ghost.

But the words wouldn't come.

She imagined the scene: walking in, asking if she could join them. What if they said yes out of politeness but didn't really want her there? Or worse—what if they said no, or gave her a look that made it clear she was interrupting?

That was the problem. She never really knew with them.

So instead of trying, she kept moving—silent as a shadow—into the kitchen.

The tile floor was cold under her toes as she opened the fridge, grabbing a bottle of water. The light glared too bright for such a quiet moment, so she shut the door quickly and leaned against the counter, unscrewing the cap.

The kitchen smelled faintly of lemon cleaner and something burnt from earlier in the evening. But mostly, it smelled like nothing. Like absence.

She took a sip, letting the water cool her dry throat, and stared out the dark window above the sink. Her reflection blinked back at her—tired eyes, messy hair, oversized sweatshirt with a faded logo.

This was how it always felt.

In the Baldwin family, Harper was the in-between. Not the baby like Jackson, not the star like Harriet. She was the one with the file cabinet full of medical records. The one who missed birthdays because she was "getting better." The one whose name came with an awkward pause in conversations.

She'd been in and out of Warren so many times, she'd lost count. She kept up with the work. She always did. But no one noticed that either.

Just once, she wanted to be more than a concern. More than someone to worry about.

She wanted to matter.

Harper shut her eyes for a moment and held her breath. She could still hear the muffled sounds of the movie playing in the next room. Her parents hadn't noticed she was awake. Hadn't noticed she was standing ten feet away, quietly longing to be invited into the warmth.

She wanted to ask. God, she wanted to ask.

But instead, she took another sip of water, tucked the bottle under her arm, and turned to leave.

When she crept past the living room again, Camila let out a soft laugh at something on-screen. Thomas shifted, adjusting his posture. Neither of them looked up.

Harper climbed the stairs slowly, each step muffled, like she was afraid to exist too loudly.