*mentioning of rape in the beginning

THE BOY with grief-stricken eyes stared back at his sister, fingers rigid and expression carefully blank.

Blank, aside from the raging waves crashing in his denim-blue eyes, dark and devastated.

His sister, clad in an orange jumpsuit, dirty-blonde hair pulled neatly in a ponytail, stared back with arms folded across her chest. Despite the clear wall separating the two at the visitor's desk, the tension between the two siblings was palpable.

It'd been over a year since chaos erupted within his family. Ever since the trials, conviction, and sentence. Nail, coffin, and hammer.

Fifteen years.

Fifteen years was what his little sister was sentenced to. No more friends or social media. No more dreams of entering medical school.

The hardest part for him to swallow was that she deserved them. All fifteen years.

He had a year to adjust to the new light his sister was subjected to. At the fact that his baby sister—the one he'd rocked in his lap when she was tearing up over mean kids at the playground; the one who cried when she had to miss a field trip at school; the one who gave him wilted daisies when he was down—had ruined someone's life. Many, many times.

A year. Three-hundred-sixty-five days. And he still didn't understand why his sister would rape her boyfriend one... two... three... five times.

Five.

And so he drove five hours to visit her at the penitentiary. Five hours to contemplate her five destructive actions. Five hours—but that was nothing compared to fifteen years.

It'd been five minutes of stretching silence before he spoke.

"Why?" His voice was hoarse from misuse—five days of barely talking had done the trick.

Now Eleanor had the decency to look down, embarrassed. Red crawled up her neck, almost matching the faded orange of her clothing.

"I don't want to talk about it," she said. Like him, her voice was dry from lack of speech. Or maybe too much of it.

He exhaled. "I came here to talk. Help me understand."

She cast her eyes to her lap. Her face had lost the youthful glow she'd been sporting not too long ago; instead replaced by a slim, pallid, aged face. She still looked the same, but yet in some haggard sort of way. Like fighting a losing battle against a storm.

When Eleanor Hart looked up again, her eyes were shimmering with tears. "I'm sorry," she choked out.

The boy with ocean eyes studied his sister as though she were a stranger. True regret lined the curve of her eyebrows. Regret that she had completely not only destroyed her own life, but of those around her. His. He could no longer see her as an innocent, bubbly girl. That twenty-three year old girl was gone.

Yes, he saw regret. But no guilt.

She was only sorry she was caught.

It was as though the silence building around them crashed.

He stood up. Abruptly. "You're not sorry. But you will be." It wasn't a threat. Rather—a plea. A hope that there was still a shred of humanity in her flat, lifeless eyes.

Distantly, he wondered how Foster had felt that first time. If he struggled, or if he was too intoxicated to realize what was going on. That his girlfriend—his best friend's little sister—pushed him onto the bed without his consent. If he was too drunk to fight her off.

He turned to leave.

Eleanor stood up as well. "Atlas."

The boy stiffened. It was fitting for his parents to gift him such a name—after a being who was punished to hold up the skies for all of eternity. And now this boy was doomed to hold up the world on his shoulders—without his sister by his side.

"I'll visit soon," he said. Empty promises. They both knew it. He could feel Eleanor's tearful stare burning into his back, but he didn't turn back.

He never did.

Atlas didn't stop for lunch. He drove five straight hours, throat parched, stomach empty, and eyes straining from exhaustion.

All too soon, he was back at campus. The sky had darkened with evening, and hints of stars shimmered in the deep indigo sky.

His muscles were stiff, but he hardly noticed as he strode across campus. Eyes darted to him, following his long strides. A stream of garbled whispers broke and latched onto him. Atlas kept his eyes forward.

There was no way they knew about Eleanor. Not after he transferred universities just to escape the judgmental glares of his former classmates.

Of course not, he assured himself. They were merely passing glances. Even so, he quickened his speed, only one destination in mind. A place where no one stared; where everyone else was too busy with their lives to notice how his was slowly crumbling.

He yanked open the door to the university library, fire coursing through his veins. Hot, unfiltered anger made a burst of unwanted strength to accompany his movement, and a few stragglers stared as the door banged against the wall.

The boy ran a trembling hand through his dark hair, willing his anger away. It worked—but only slightly. It still lingered in the back of his mind, as though waiting for just one more thing to go wrong. One more thing, and then it'd pounce.

Barely sparing a glance at the lady behind the counter, Atlas Hart strode through tall, winding shelves until he spotted the little table at the back.

Atlas did not come to the library to read. No, he came to watch. People-watching had always calmed him—had distracted him from the demanding problems in his life. For a blissful moment, he could lose himself studying others.

As he settled into his chair, a bright burst of color caught his eye.

A yellow butterfly pin, glinting from strands of faded vanilla blonde.

The owner of the pin reached out on tippy toes, her wavy hair tumbling down to her dainty waist. Atlas watched, half-mesmerized, as she tried and failed to swipe a book off the taller shelf.

The anger inside him lessoned. With each passing second, it was being overcome by an unfamiliar sensation: hope. It was an ache that resonated deep in his chest, a pang that echoed as though his heart recognized this girl.

He stood up. Slowly. It took only half a second for him to make up his mind.

Within three strides, he was standing behind her. Not too close. But close enough so he could smell the lingering scent of her shampoo: faded peaches—and something else. Something decidedly feminine and her.

He reached up, his hand grazing hers as he grabbed the book. The girl startled, half-turning as he pressed the book into her small hands.

As she turned, the butterfly clip in her hair got tangled, and he found golden strands wrapped around his finger. The butterfly fell to the floor.

So did his stomach, when their eyes met.

The first thing he noticed was the constellations of light freckles dusting her nose. Second: the pink flush of her cheeks as she shyly looked up at him. And third: her eyes.

They were bright and burning; innocent and naïve. As he stared down at her, suddenly, he found that he didn't want to untangle his fingers from her hair.

No, he wanted to sweep her off her feet and press her against the bookshelf. He wanted to stroke her hair and savor the taste of peaches and cream on her skin. But more than that, he wanted to share his sunsets with her. Sunrises, too. The intensity of this new revelation surprised him, and he let go. Disappointment stirred in his stomach. He wanted to hold her forever.

He wanted her to be his sky.

Atlas banished the thought as soon as it arrived. He didn't even know her name, and now he wanted more than what he could have. What he deserved.

"It looks like you needed some help." His voice was suddenly hoarse again, and throat dry.

The girl shivered with his words, and her blush deepened. Something primal in Atlas stirred at the reaction; urged him to pull her closer and make her blush some more.

"Thank you," she said, her voice catching in her throat. It was light and sweet, like a songbird under clear, crisp moonlight.

It suited her.

"You're welcome." This time, after he spoke, she raised her hand as though to press it against her red-stained cheeks, lowering her eyes.

He stepped back. Immediately missing the warmth of her peaches scent.

Appearing flustered, the girl reached down and grabbed the book. "Thank you," she said again. Then, after another hesitant glance at him, she hugged the book to her chest and turned the corner.

Atlas stood, his hands feeling empty, and his heart yearning for something that was no longer with him.

He glanced down, and that's when he saw it: the butterfly pin discarded to the ground. He gently picked it up.

And pocketed it.

..

Nelly's Bakery was just a few blocks away from campus, and after another grumbling protest from his stomach, Atlas gave in and walked those blocks to the warm, inviting diner.

As soon as he entered and a little bell hung at the top of the door rung, he was ambushed with the enticing smell of pastries and pies. Couples sat at booths near the open windows and shared cupcakes with frosted hearts on them, and the chill of the winter breeze balanced the warm atmosphere.

An old woman stood behind the counter, her apron worn and tattered. Her eyes lit up when she saw him.

"Hey, Grandma," he said, his words smushed by her tackling hug.

"Atlas, you've lost weight," she said immediately, pulling back from the embrace. She patted his sides. "You poor thing. Come over more often and I'll make sure you properly feed yourself." Her eyes creased with concern.

"Sure," he said amicably, and gestured to a nearby table. "Can I sit?"

She shooed him over. "We have pumpkin pie. A winter special. Or raspberry chocolate pie, if you're looking for a sugar fix."

Atlas hesitated. His mind flashed back to strawberry-blonde hair and a butterfly pin. "What about peaches?"

"Peach pie? Coming right up." With a broad smile, his grandmother bustled back over to the counter and into the kitchen. Just as she entered, she shot him another glance, as though making sure he wasn't bolting from his seat.

He sent her a gentle, reassuring smile. He wasn't going anywhere.

Especially not when the door jingled again, and a familiar girl stepped through.

One with vanilla-blonde hair and the scent of peaches.

a/n

and... that's a wrap on the second chapter! how did you feel delving into atlas' point of view? and i apologize for bringing up such harsh topics right off the bat, but i wanted to use this story to bring awareness to issues like these. with that being said, id like to make this clear: not all men are bad, and not all rapists are men.

on a lighter note, what do you want to see more in the coming chapters? what was lacking? id love some feedback!

—ivyxx