At 2:00 AM, she woke up with a start. The locked door in her mind swung open. The anger came rushing back—hot, messy, wonderful. She laughed into her pillow.

Mia looked at him. At Elena. At the three-ring binder on the counter. At Leo, who gave her the tiniest nod.

That night, Mia wrote in her journal—something she never did. They put something in my head. I can feel it like a locked door. I can’t find the handle. By week four, the house was unnervingly quiet. Leo did his chores without being asked. Mia loaded the dishwasher without rolling her eyes. At dinner, everyone used “I feel” statements. David suggested a family board game night, and no one groaned.

Leo looked genuinely curious. “Like those stage shows where people cluck like chickens?”

The silence that followed was not harmonious. It was real. And for the first time in a month, Mia smiled.

“Because I’ve been pretending too,” Leo whispered. “For three days now. The math anchor wore off after the first week, but I didn’t tell Mom and Dad. I wanted to see if they’d notice I was back to normal. They didn’t. They just liked the quiet.”