Because I’m not playing for fun anymore.
I’m playing toearnit. To earnbelonging.To prove—what? That I’m still worth the jersey? That I didn’truineverything? Maybe I’m not too much?
Maybe if I run hard enough, fast enough,goodenough—someone will finally say it out loud.
That it’s okay to still be me, and my heart will heal someday.
That I’mstillhere.
And maybe, eventually, I’ll believe it too.
THIRTY
SILAS
Hell.That’s what my life has become.
It turns out, when you lose all control over everything—and you need said control tosurvive—you crash and burn in slow, painful silence.
There’s no noise. Just ash and wreckage.
I wake up alone. Eat alone. I go to the gym and then my crappy job, and come back to an apartment that still smells like him when the heat kicks on—even though we never used the heat while he was here.
But somehow the vents still remember his scent. It’s a cruel reminder of what I lost, and I can only hope he’s doing good.
One of his hoodies is still draped over the back of the couch—black, worn soft in all the places where it used to cling to his smaller frame. I haven’t moved it from that spot, as though he might come through the door and want to wear it. That’s the small bit of control I have left, leaving his stuff exactly where he left it.
Instead of coaching, I’m back behind a bar four nights a week—serving shots to undergrads who don’t recognize me; the only thing they care about is blowing off steam. I made sure to avoid Riot in my job search, because I know he goes there. And I’m not strong enough to resist him if he was right in front of me.
Thankfully, the tips pay the rent. My pride covers the rest. And I smile through it all, because pretending nothing’s wrong is the only thing I still know how to do.
Now if I could only convince my therapist. These mandatory sessions are getting old. I don’t want to talk about it. I don’t want to talk about Luke. I told her during our first session that it was my fault, I encouraged the relationship. But that’s all I’ve told her.
I push into the waiting room, my gaze going over the basic beige walls. I sign in and then take a seat. I sit with one ankle resting on the opposite knee, bouncing it out of habit. Not nerves. Definitely not regret.
My eyes flick over my therapist’s name written in neat letters on the door. The white noise machine in the corner fills the silence, and I pick up a magazine about therapy and flip through it mindlessly, before I set it to the side and pull out my phone.
My screen lights up with a notification. A follow I probably should have unfollowed a long time ago.
@UofMFootball: Final score: 21-17. That’s how we Playoffs.
The photo is mid-celebration—Luke lifted slightly off the ground, arms around Ty and Will, helmet still on, his mouth guard hanging as his mouth is wide open in a victorious yell.
It’s from the last game. He looks…happy. Not performatively happy like the few pictures I’ve seen of him, but really happy. He looks free, lit up from the inside. And I know I made the right decision.
I zoom in, just to see him clearer, and hate myself for it. Still, I take in his smile, the way the photo captured his eyes sparkling. I think I can even see a little leftover glitter on his cheekbones. I swallow hard just as the door opens for my therapist.
“Silas,” Cella says, voice kind but neutral. “Come on in.”
Locking my phone, I shove it into my pocket as I stand and follow her back into her cozy little room. It’s the opposite of sterile in here. More like sitting in a friend’s living room. She has a love seat, a side table with the prerequisite tissues I’ve never used, a desk and chair, and three book shelves full of all kinds of books.
“How have you been this week?”
I clear my throat. “Good.”
She raises an eyebrow and presses her lips together at the response. I know by now that the short responses don’t really give her much to work with. And I’m not trying to be a jerk, but I’m sure it comes off that way.
She doesn’t write anything down right away.
