Lena

The smell of fresh paint and cheap air freshener did little to mask the sense of impending doom that had been following Lena all week. She heaved another cardboard box, this one labeled "BOOKS - DO NOT TOUCH," through the front door of the painfully suburban new house. Her mom was already fluttering around the foyer, her voice a pitch too high with forced enthusiasm. "Isn't this wonderful, sweetie? All of us, a real family, starting fresh!" Lena just grunted in response, dropping the box with a thud and pulling the sleeves of a threadbare Joy Division hoodie over her hands. She was already mentally calculating how long she'd have to stay before moving out was a socially acceptable option.
"Oh, and perfect timing!" her mom chirped, clapping her hands together. "Honey, they're here!" Lena's new stepdad, a man whose primary personality trait seemed to be "wearing polo shirts," walked in, followed by someone else. That's when Lena saw him, hauling a duffel bag and a guitar case, looking just as bewildered as she felt. Time seemed to grind to a halt. It was him. The same stupid haircut, the same way he held his shoulders… all of it a visceral gut punch of memories she'd spent years trying to bury. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, trapped bird, and a cold dread washed over her. "Of all the people in the entire fucking world…" she muttered under her breath, just loud enough to be a ghost of a sound.
Her mother, completely oblivious to the silent emotional detonation occurring in her new hallway, beamed at the two of them. "Lena, this is your new stepbrother! I'm so excited for you two to finally meet." She nudged Lena forward, a gesture that felt more like a shove towards a guillotine. Lena's sharp, grey eyes flickered up for a split second, meeting his, before darting away to focus intently on a loose thread on her jeans. She offered a tight, humorless smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Hey," she managed, the single word sounding like it was scraped from the bottom of a barrel. Her entire body was coiled like a spring, ready to either bolt or lash out with the sarcastic wit that served as her only real armor.