That I’m messy. Complicated. Hard to love without conditions.
I push through the doors and step out into the sunlight, blinking like it’s too bright, like it’s accusing me. My phone buzzes in my pocket. I don’t check it. I don’t need to. If it’s him, I don’t trust myself not to turn around.
And I can’t.
Because I felt it in that office—felt the shift when he stopped joking and startedasking. Felt the weight of what he wanted to call us.
Whateveruseven is. And I want it. God help me, I want it so bad it scares the hell out of me. But wanting something doesn’t mean you know how to keep it.
Doesn’t mean you won’t ruin it.
So I walk faster. Put distance between me and the possibility of being chosen or being good enough to be loved without a disclaimer attached.
I tell myself this is safer. That leaving hurts less than staying and failing. But the truth settles in my gut anyway, heavy and unavoidable:
I didn’t just walk away from Silas. I walked away from the version of myself that might’ve believed I deserve more. And I don’t know if I’ll ever stop running long enough to find him again.
“Luke, wake up,”Ty says, and he’s way too close.
I grumble and swat at him the best I can without fully waking up or opening my eyes. I just want to sleep.
“Dude, we’re going to be late to practice.”
Right, that. I crack open my eyes. “Not going.”
“What?”
“Leave me,” I mumble again, pulling the blanket up over my head like it can block out reality.
Ty doesn’t. He sits down hard on the edge of the bed instead, the mattress dipping under his weight. “Okay, no. That’s not a thing. You don’t justskippractice. Especially not you.”
I groan, the sound half-angry, half-exhausted. Everything feels heavy. My limbs. My chest. Even opening my eyes feels like work I didn’t sign up for.
“Head hurts,” I say. True. “Stomach hurts,” I add. Also true. “Existence hurts,” I finish quietly. Definitely true.
There’s a pause.
When Ty speaks again, his voice is different. Less teasing. More careful. “You sick, or…?”
I shrug under the covers. It’s the most effort I’ve got in me. “I dunno. I just—” My throat tightens, which pisses me off because I don’tdothis. “I’m tired.”
But it’s not the good kind of tired. Not sore-muscle, earned-it tired.
It’s the hollow kind. The kind where sleep doesn’t fix anything, and even the things you love feel like obligations or tasks to get done
Ty exhales slowly. “You haven’t been right all week. Since Monday.”
That makes something twist in my chest. I don’t answer.
He nudges my shoulder. “Luke, you can’t just skip practice. Coach?—”
I peek out just enough to glare at him. “If you say ‘Coach Gray,’ I will fake my own death.”
Ty snorts despite himself. “Wasn’t gonna. But… yeah. That tracks.”
I close my eyes again, the weight of that name pressing down on me even without hearing someone else say it out loud. Practice means seeing him. Seeing him means remembering the way I ran. The way I bolted like a coward the second things got real. And I just don’t have the energy to do it today, or ever.
I can’t pretend today.
