Ponyboy Curtis was fourteen, which felt old enough to understand the world and young enough for it to still feel too loud.
During the day, he was fine.
At school he escaped into books, memorized poems, counted sidewalk cracks, and kept his head down. His brain worked fast—too fast sometimes—and he noticed things other people didn't: the way sunlight fractured through dusty windows, the exact rhythm of Darry's footsteps when he was tired, the smell of oil and smoke that clung to Sodapop like a second skin.
But nighttime was different.
The dark wasn't just the absence of light for Ponyboy—it was everything he couldn't see but could imagine. Shadows stretched too far. Sounds grew teeth. His thoughts looped and replayed, sharper and louder without daylight to soften them.
He tried to be brave about it.
Fourteen-year-old boys weren't supposed to be scared of the dark—especially not Greasers. Especially not Curtis boys. So Ponyboy learned ways to cope without saying the word afraid out loud.
He slept with:
the hallway light cracked just enough to spill gold onto the floor
a book tucked under his pillow, like armor
the steady comfort of Soda's radio murmuring through the wall
Sometimes, when it got really bad, he recited poetry in his head. Words were predictable. Words didn't move.
And on the worst nights—when the house creaked and his thoughts spiraled—he listened for Darry's breathing down the hall. Because if Darry was awake, then Ponyboy wasn't alone in the dark.
He never told anyone how much it scared him.
But Johnny noticed.
