After orientation, they cut us loose — free to wander the school grounds like ghosts without a purpose. The clubs, the library, the empty classrooms… all open, yet somehow hollow.
Only two classes today — First Period and P.E. Just enough time to hand out uniforms and remind us that this place was still a cage, no matter how polished its floors looked.
"Let's go to the library," Emma said, her tone casual. "Maybe the computers are set up."
So we walked.
The hallways felt smaller than I remembered — as if the walls had closed in during summer break. Once, the place had felt like a cathedral. Grand, endless. Now, it just felt… human. Maybe it wasn't the school that had shrunk. Maybe we had outgrown it.
Shank's voice echoed in my head, sharp as ever — that mix of humor and quiet authority that refused to fade with time.
"You and I think like this — one plus one equals zero. Because how can you count yourself as one when you've already given parts of yourself away?"
He had said that once. Sitting in the fading sunlight, sweat dripping from our faces, laughter tangled with the smoke of burnt burgers.
"Liam," he'd continued, "you've always been there — kicking, crawling, holding together what little you could with glue that barely stuck. One day, it won't be enough. You'll wish you tried more… failed more. Don't start connections with lies. You never know — you might be the glue holding someone else together. And if you make a girl cry…"
He grinned.
"That's one hundred fifty pushups. With a twenty-five on your back."
That memory still felt fresh — like the smell of charcoal on cold metal.
Now, standing in the chill breeze outside the library, I caught myself smiling. The air bit at my skin, carrying the ghost of that laughter — one man, one boy, and a sun that refused to set.
He'd lost things he couldn't even name. Things too heavy to put into words.
"The worst pain," he'd said, "isn't what you lose. It's what you never risked enough to experience. Stop thinking in straight lines. No one buys a story without twists. So don't live one."
I sighed.
It had been years.
But the lesson felt carved into me.
Inside the library, everything was still. Emma curled up at one of the tables, asleep within minutes. I sat across from her, pen in hand, mind buzzing with things I didn't want to say but had to.
Honesty always feels like walking into a trap — like stepping into light just to prove you're real.
So I wrote. Not everything. Just the truth that hurt most. Folded it once. Then twice. Then I kicked Emma's chair lightly.
She blinked awake, still half in a dream, and I handed her the note.
The next five minutes stretched into eternity.
Her eyes moved across the paper, pausing sometimes. Every glance up sent a cold shiver down my spine. I'd written too much. I'd gone too far.
Five hours of friendship — that had to be a record.
When she finally finished, she set the paper down. Closed her eyes.
Silence.
"That's it?" I wanted to scream.
Each passing second felt like waiting on food that was never coming — the kind of wait that breaks patience and dignity at once.
Then she looked at me — really looked. Her gaze sharp, dissecting. Like she could see all the cracks beneath the surface. Then, just as suddenly, she turned away, yawned… and went back to sleep.
I stared, incredulous.
How could she look so peaceful after reading that?
Meanwhile, my chair had turned into a torture device — hard edges biting into my back, a reminder that sometimes, truth doesn't set you free. It just leaves you exposed.
I realized, after a while, that she didn't owe me anything.
No explanation. No answer. Not even a glance.
What I'd written wasn't a confession or a cry for help. It wasn't a trauma dump. It was… truth.
Ugly, unfiltered, and strangely simple. The kind of truth people don't say out loud — or maybe can't.
I'd done my part.
The rest was out of my hands.
Time, I guessed, would decide what that honesty was worth.
Sliding my headphones on, I hit play.
"Deep Enough to Disappear — Brew Brew."
The melody bled into the silence like rain over cracked stone.
The rest of the day drifted by without meaning.
P.E. was a blur of cold metal lockers, polyester uniforms, and the sterile smell of disinfectant.
They measured our height, our weight, our worth in numbers that didn't matter.
Me and Emma swapped numbers before parting ways.
She looked the same — but quieter. More distant.
Maybe something had shifted. Maybe nothing had.
On the bus, we sat side by side, the hum of the engine filling the space between us. When I stepped off at the plaza, she waved — a small, tired motion — and the doors closed behind me.
My luck had been decent lately, but one thing felt off.
Shank wasn't around.
Weird. He'd usually say something — a text, a call, a joke about skipping leg day.
I messaged Rick instead.
"Hey Rick, I know I'm banned. I'm just gonna crash in your office for a bit."
Rick was twenty-two, built like a UFC fighter — tall, carved muscle, the kind of guy who looked like a storm when he walked into a room.
But beneath that, he was… kind.
Not soft. Just kind.
"SOUNDS GOOD, KID!" he yelled from across the hall.
"JUST PUT THE CHAIR BACK IN THE RIGHT SPOT OR SHANK'LL LOSE IT! HAHA!"
I barely talked to him. Usually because he was busy yelling about his "side hustle" — selling rare trading cards like they were stocks.
I made the mistake of asking once.
Now I knew his entire financial portfolio.
Apparently, he didn't even need the job.
He just wanted free access to the gym.
Being banned from practice — and with Shank gone — made the evening drag like a slow bleed.
I cracked open the second-month school study material,I'd traded two bags of chips for.
Each page felt heavier than it should have.
Maybe because I knew no one was coming to check on me this time.
So I studied.
And somewhere between the lines and the silence, the day ended.
Home felt colder than usual. The thermostat insisted it was seventy-two, but the air carried the kind of chill that crept beneath skin — the kind that numbers couldn't measure. My dad always said keeping it higher saved money, but right now it felt closer to sixty-two.
No sound. No TV humming in the background. Just silence — heavy and waiting.
I knew my mom was home; her keys dangled from the hook beside the door, a small, ordinary sign of presence. But the house still felt empty.
My dad, though... he'd been gone since morning.
Since that incident.
And the quiet seemed to know it.