London at dusk swallowed people whole. Shadows stretched long and hungry, streetlights flickered like ghostly lanterns, and voices tangled in the thick summer air like whispers in the dark.

  Wendy pressed her forehead against the cool glass of her bedroom window, exhaling as she watched the people below. The street was alive with cars passing, people laughing, music spilling from pub doorways. Someone smoked on a balcony, their embered cigarette pulsing like a dying star. The sound of laughter, of clinking glasses, of distant sirens, all blurred together into the song of the city.

  The heat of the day still clung to the pavement, rising in waves, even as the sky deepened into bruised shades of violet and navy. Inside the Darlings’ flat, however, the air felt thicker.

  Not because of the heat, though the small windows barely let in a breeze. Not because of the noise, though it was never truly silent here.

  It was because John was home.

  Because this flat, this three-bedroom space wasn’t really meant for five people.

  For most of the year, it was just Wendy, Michael, and their parents—spacious enough to move without tripping over each other. But in the summer, when John returned from his boarding school, the walls seemed to press in.

  There were more shoes piled in the entryway, more elbows knocking together at the dinner table, more voices talking over each other in the too-small living room. Their parents, who were already half-present at best, seemed to retreat even further into their own world, confident that the three of them could sort things out on their own.

  Which—most of the time—they could.

  But in just a few months, Wendy would be leaving for university.

  And then what would happen to Michael?

  She didn’t have an answer.

  And she wasn’t sure she wanted to know.

  "WENDY!"

  Her bedroom door burst open so suddenly that the handle slammed against the wall.

  Michael stood in the doorway, barefoot, already in his soft, oversized pajama shirt, which had a print of some old cartoon hero he refused to admit he still liked. His hair was still damp from his shower, curling at the ends, and his face was flushed with frustration.

  John was behind him, head buried in his game.

  Michael stormed in, arms flailing. "John won’t let me play his Switch."

  John, still looking at his Switch, barely glanced up. "Because it’s mine."

  "You’ve been on it forever!"

  John shrugged. "One hour."

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  "It felt like all day!"

  Wendy closed her eyes, pinched the bridge of her nose, and inhaled deeply.

  She could already tell this was her problem now.

  Of course it was.

  Their parents were still in the flat, technically. But they were getting ready for another event—some charity fundraiser, another formal dinner with people who wore expensive watches and cared about expensive things. They were busy with zippers and cologne and missing cufflinks, too distracted to get involved in “silly things,” as their mother always said.

  Which meant Wendy, as usual, was the default adult.

  And Michael and John both knew it.

  "John," Wendy said, already exasperated, "just let him play for a bit."

  John groaned. "It’s mine, Wendy."

  "You’re leaving for school again in September," Michael pointed out smugly. "Maybe you should get used to sharing."

  John shot him a glare. "You don’t even like my games!"

  Michael gasped, genuinely offended. "I love them! I just never get a turn!"

  Wendy held up a hand. "John, thirty minutes, that’s it."

  Michael beamed.

  John sighed, dragging a hand down his face like she was sentencing him to exile. But he didn’t argue.

  "Fine."

  Michael cheered in victory, already darting toward the living room.

  John turned to Wendy, annoyance simmering behind his eyes. "You know he’s going to be awful at it, right?"

  "Obviously." Wendy gave him a small, knowing smirk. "But you’re going to sit there and suffer through it."

  John muttered something about "worse than boarding school" before slinking out after Michael.

  Wendy sighed and flopped back onto her bed, letting her head sink into the pillows.

  This was the rhythm of summer.

  John home, Michael being his usual loud, overexcited self, their parents half-present, already looking forward to the next event, the next meeting, the next reason to be away.

  It wasn’t bad, exactly.

  It had always been this way.

  But as Wendy stared at the ceiling, she wondered when they had stopped noticing.

  When their parents had started assuming she could handle everything.

  When they had started trusting that she would always be there to fix things.

  Michael was only ten.

  And in two months, she would be gone.

  Her suitcase lay open on her bed, half-packed with the life she was about to leave behind. University was two months away, but the thought of it had already begun pulling her away from this place, from this home, from them.

  She’d tried bringing it up before—half-heartedly, casually mentioning that maybe their parents should pay closer attention to Michael, or maybe he should join an afterschool club, or maybe they should just—be around more.

  Her mother had smiled distractedly. "Oh, Michael’s always been independent," she had said." And John’s home in the summer. He’ll keep an eye on him."

  John.

  Who had one foot out the door already.

  Who spent most of his time texting his friends or locked in his room with his games, leaving Michael to entertain himself.

  And their father had said something about how Michael was a smart boy, how Wendy had turned out just fine, how they would figure things out when the time came.

  As if the time wasn’t already here.

  She swallowed hard.

  She wasn’t sure if she was coming back next summer, or ever. If the right internship came up, or the right job, or just the right excuse to stay away—who would notice? Michael, of course, but their parents?

  Maybe they’d pause long enough to ask where she was. Maybe they’d just assume she was fine, the way they always had.

  She should want to come back. She should feel guilty. And she did—God, she did. But staying? Sinking into this rhythm forever? Becoming the one who was always left behind? Wasn’t that worse? She hated the part of her that wanted something bigger, something further away. And she hated that leaving meant leaving Michael behind.

  The thought made her stomach twist.

  Michael adored her. He still climbed into her bed when he had nightmares, still told her everything, still followed her around the flat like a shadow sometimes.

  She didn’t know what would happen to him if she left for good.

  And she wasn’t sure she wanted to find out.

  She turned her head toward the window.

  Outside, the last stretch of sunlight was slipping behind the buildings.

  The sky darkened, swallowing the last sliver of daylight. Just another summer night in the city.

  The last normal night.