Rocco-s Pov 17 -

The Weight of Seventeen

Rocco stood up. He walked to his mirror and looked at the boy staring back. Dark circles. A jaw that needed shaving but not badly enough to bother. A small scar above his eyebrow from a bike crash when he was twelve—back when pain was simple, just gravel and blood and a mother’s kiss. rocco-s pov 17

The world, Rocco had decided, was not built for a boy who felt everything in capital letters. At seventeen, his bones ached with a fatigue that had nothing to do with sleep and everything to do with the performance of being fine. He stood in the doorway of his bedroom, one hand pressed flat against the jamb, watching his mother cry on the phone in the kitchen. She thought he couldn’t hear her. He heard everything. The Weight of Seventeen Rocco stood up