Like it’s never been anything else.
I find a new one this morning—on the fridge. Crayon explosions of color. Jav with a jetpack. Ben flying beside him. Me with laser eyes.
It makes me smile.
And ache.
The school auditoriumsmells like waxed floors and recycled air. Parents cluster in folding chairs, sipping stimcaf and pretending not to judge each other’s parenting styles.
I sit three rows from the front, arms crossed, jaw tight.
I don’t even know why I’m here.
Maybe for Ben. Maybe to feel normal again. Maybe to prove I can still show up for something that isn’t war.
Ms. Trin’s already on stage, doing the thing she does—over-enunciating about “cross-curricular empathy matrices” and “inclusive narrative frameworks.” The room is half-asleep.
And then I feel it.
A shift.
A quiet tension.
Like gravity tilts just slightly off center.
I glance back.
He’s there.
Jav.
But not the version from before.
Not Mr. Kuraken in tailored jackets and smug smirks.
No suit. No armor.
Just a soft gray shirt, the kind that clings to his shoulders without meaning to, and a pair of worn jeans that look like they’ve seen better years.
He doesn’t take the front row like he used to.
Doesn’t wave at kids or crack jokes or take over the spotlight.
He just slips into a back seat.
Quiet.
Watching.
I try not to stare.
I fail.
Something in my chest shifts. Not quite breaking. Not quite healing either.
He doesn’t try to meet my gaze. Doesn’t make a show of being there. Just folds his hands and listens to Ms. Trin drone on about “space colony cooperative games.”
It’s like he knows he doesn’t get to be the center of the room anymore.
