Home is Cameron’s jaw locked tight, as if sheer will could keep our family together earth-side.
Home is me counting time in medication windows and meals. Making sure Pops has eaten enough to take his medications without upsetting his stomach. Making sure we are rotating and moving him enough to make sure he doesn't get sores or any sore spots on his skin.
Home is honestly the last place I want to be right now. So I don’t leave the court when everyone else does.
Instead, I stand at center court until everyone is gone, then I drop. Flat on my back. Arms loose on the cool floor beside me. Staring up at the rafters like if I don’t move, the world can’t move either.
The overhead lights buzz softly. Somewhere in the distance, a door closes. The building exhales.
Logan was in the stands tonight. Not in the front row, he’d never make it that obvious. But he was close enough that I found him easily, though I think I could find him just about anywhere.
His gaze stayed on me the whole game. Even when I wasn’t looking, I could feel it.
I close my eyes.
Maybe if I stay here long enough, time will pause out of pity.
Minutes pass. Or seconds. Time is weird lately.
At some point, the last of the chatter fades. The last sneakers squeak out of the gym. The last echo disappears.
It’s just me and the lights and the hollow, but only for a second.
Footsteps approach, and I know who it is before they even make it to my side.
I keep my eyes closed anyway, stubborn.
The footsteps stop near my head.
He lowers himself onto the floor beside me. I open my eyes and turn my head.
Logan is stretched out next to me like he belongs here—hoodie, sweats, one arm behind his head, gaze fixed on the ceiling.
“Figured you’d still be here,” he adds, and the way he says it makes it sound like a confession. Like he’s annoyed that he cares this much. He lies there with me, shoulder close enough that I can feel the warmth of him through the sleeves of his hoodie.
Finally, I turn my head again, and my voice comes out smaller than I want it to. “Hi.”
Logan’s smirk deepens a fraction. “Hi.”
Two letters. Still enough to shift something in my chest.
We lie in silence again. The court is empty around us. The building hums faintly with electricity and leftover sound.
“You don’t have to pretend with me, you know,” Logan says quietly.
My breath catches. I force a scoff because sarcasm is safer than tears. “Pretend what?”
Logan doesn’t take the bait. He just holds my eyes.
“That you’re fine,” he says evenly. “That you’re only upset about losing the game.”
“I am mad about the game,” I snap, because it’s true and also because it’s easier.
“I know,” he says immediately, no argument. “You should be. You played your ass off.”
The validation lands like warmth I didn’t know I needed.
Then, quieter, he adds, “But it’s not the only thing.”
