Lines of a Dream

Noah Anderson sat at the far end of the dining table, his head bowed, hoping no one would notice him. The family dinner was in full swing, though "family" felt like a stretch—he was more like a ghost haunting the edges of the room.

"Henry," their father said, his voice loud and booming, "I saw your game last weekend. Three home runs? You're unstoppable, son."

Henry, seated at the head of the table, leaned back in his chair and smirked. "It's nothing, Dad. Just doing my best out there."

"Nothing?" their mother chimed in, eyes gleaming with pride. "The scouts are already asking about you. Can you imagine? My son, a star athlete!"

Michael, the youngest, barely eight years old, piped up with a grin. "Henry's the coolest! He's gonna be famous!"

Noah kept his eyes on his plate, poking at the mashed potatoes. He knew what was coming next.

"Michael," their mother cooed, reaching over to ruffle his hair, "how was school today, sweetheart?"

"I got an A+ on my math quiz!" Michael said proudly, his grin widening.

"An A+?" their father exclaimed. "That's my boy! You've got the brains to match Henry's talent. I'm proud of you."

Noah's grip on his fork tightened. The silence surrounding him was suffocating. No one asked about his day. No one even looked at him. He bit his lip, debating whether to speak up—just to remind them he was there.

"Uh…" The sound came out weak and cracked. He cleared his throat and tried again, barely above a whisper. "I… I got a B+ on my art project."

The table fell silent for a brief moment. All eyes turned toward Noah, and for a second, hope flickered in his chest. Maybe they'd say something nice. Maybe—

"A B+?" his father interrupted, his tone sharp and unimpressed. "That's not something to brag about, Noah. And art? Come on. That's not a real subject."

"It's not like you were going to bring home an A anyway," Henry added, his voice dripping with condescension. "Stick to doodling in your notebook or whatever it is you do."

Michael giggled, though it wasn't malicious. To him, it was just funny how everyone picked on Noah. "Yeah, B+ isn't that good."

"Henry," their mother said softly, though she didn't even glance at Noah. "Be nice to your brother."

"Why?" Henry scoffed, leaning forward on his elbows. "He's just sitting there like always, not saying anything. At least try to be useful, Noah."

Noah's heart pounded in his chest, the edges of his vision starting to blur. His breathing quickened as the familiar tightness in his throat took hold. He wanted to speak, to yell, to defend himself, but the words stuck like glue. He couldn't even look up from his plate.

Their father sighed, setting his fork down with a clang. "Henry's right. You've got to step up, Noah. You're in 11th grade. You think the world's going to care about your silly drawings? You need to get serious about your future. Look at Henry. Look at Michael. They're going places."

The pressure in Noah's chest grew unbearable. He felt like he was shrinking, like every word chipped away at what little confidence he had left.

"I—I…" His voice cracked, and he froze. Everyone was looking at him again. His breathing hitched, and he could feel the heat rising to his face. The room was spinning, his parents' disapproving stares and Henry's smug grin closing in like walls.

"Spit it out already," Henry said, rolling his eyes.

Noah shoved his chair back and stood, his legs trembling. "I'm full," he mumbled, barely audible, before bolting out of the room. He didn't wait for a response, racing up the stairs two at a time and slamming his bedroom door shut behind him.

Inside the safety of his room, Noah leaned against the door, trying to catch his breath. His heart was pounding so loudly it drowned out the muffled voices downstairs. His hands shook as he pressed them to his temples, squeezing his eyes shut.

Why do I even try? he thought bitterly. They don't care. They never have.

Noah glanced at his desk, where his sketchbook sat waiting for him. Drawing had always been his escape, his way of shutting out the noise. But tonight, even that felt pointless. What was the use of creating worlds no one would ever see?

Collapsing onto his bed, Noah stared at the ceiling, his thoughts swirling in a dark, endless loop. He didn't want to cry, but the tears came anyway, hot and silent. He hated himself for being so weak, for letting them get to him.

Downstairs, the family carried on as if nothing had happened.

"Don't be so hard on him," their mother said casually, picking up her plate. "Noah's just… different."

"Different isn't going to cut it," their father replied, shaking his head. "He needs to grow up. This world isn't kind to kids like him."

Henry snorted. "He'll never make it. He's a lost cause."

Michael tilted his head, confused. "What's a lost cause?"

"Someone who doesn't try hard enough," Henry said, smirking. "Someone like Noah."