My name is Ava, and I'm 18. I live in Los Angeles with my dad, who owns a small restaurant. My mom passed away when I was 12.

Well, not my biological mom. My biological parents were a nightmare. My father was an alcoholic who'd hit me with whatever was nearby—a broom, an empty bottle, it didn't matter. My mom? She ran off with her boyfriend when I was 8.

I wasn't allowed to step outside. My father kept me locked in the house, not because he cared about me, but because of a secret I've carried my whole life: I can hear people's thoughts.

It's not as cool as it sounds. Whenever I went outside, the voices in my head became unbearable. Strangers' thoughts screamed at me, all at once—fears, desires, regrets, lies. I'd wear headphones to block out the noise, but it didn't always work.

One day, everything changed. My father was killed.

I didn't see who did it. Whoever it was locked me in my room before I could catch a glimpse. Strangely, I didn't cry. I wasn't scared or sad. If anything, I felt… relieved.

After his death, I was adopted by Mr. William and his wife, Mrs. Calleri. They couldn't have children, so they treated me like a princess. At first, it felt strange. I wasn't used to love or kindness. Every hug, every gentle word made me flinch.

But then they found out about my secret.

When they realized I could hear their thoughts, they became terrified. They weren't angry, just scared—scared of what I could do, scared of what would happen if anyone else found out.

I was homeschooled after that, kept away from the world. They only let me out once, to an amusement park. Big mistake.

The moment we arrived, the flood of thoughts hit me like a tidal wave. People's voices filled my head—complaints about long lines, fears of roller coasters, excitement over funnel cakes. I couldn't take it. My vision blurred, my knees gave out, and I passed out.

They rushed me to the hospital, but after that, I was grounded for life. No more outings. No more people.

The only connection I had to the outside world was through my computer. That's where I met no_name.

I don't know their real name, or even if they're a boy or a girl. The only thing I know is that they're like me. They understand what it's like to be… different. But whenever I try to ask about them—where they're from, what they can do—they change the subject.

Now, ten years after my biological parents left me, I'm finally stepping outside again.

For the first time in my life, I'm going to high school.