The silence in my house is heavy, pressing against my eardrums like a physical weight. I lie on the bed, the cool air from the conditioning unit raising gooseflesh on my bare arms. I am 16 years old, and this silence is the only thing I own that is truly mine. I moved out of the orphanage a year ago, leaving the grey, drafty building behind for this isolated spot miles from the city noise. The morning light cuts through the sheer curtains, illuminating dust motes dancing in the beams that stretch across the wooden floorboards. It is peaceful, but my skin feels too tight, humming with a restless energy that demands friction.