Page 88 of Puck Me Back to Life

There isn't much inside beyond leftover chicken, vegetables, and rice, but it's enough. Normally I would grab something quick and call it a day. Today I actually feel like cooking. The realization hits halfway through chopping vegetables. I feel good.

Not perfect. Just... good.

My body is tired in the pleasant way it gets after a hard workout. Every time I stretch or reach for something, I feel the lingering soreness from last night. I should probably be embarrassed by how much I don't mind it. Instead, the ache feels grounding. It keeps me present. Keeps me focused on what's directly in front of me.

I finish making breakfast and sit down to eat. When I'm done, I wash the dishes. I stare at the clean countertop afterward. Then I start wiping it down. One thing leads to another. Twenty minutes later, I'm vacuuming. Thirty minutes in, I'm organizing the stack of books beside my couch.

At some point Cleveland wanders in through the partially open balcony door that connects Angela's apartment to mine. The orange cat hops onto the arm of the couch and watches me with visible suspicion.

“You look confused.”

Cleveland blinks.

“I am too.”

He yawns and immediately loses interest in me. Typical.

The apartment slowly starts looking less like a place someone survives in and more like a place someone actually lives. The strange thing is that I don't even resent doing it. Usually, every task feels heavier than it should. Getting through a day often takes more energy than I have available.

Today feels easier. The thought lingers in the back of my mind while I carry a stack of books toward the shelf near my desk.

That's when I notice the calendar hanging on the wall.

The Wizards schedule.

Practice days.

Games.

Travel.

Team events.

I set the books down and step closer.

Three games next week.

A road trip after that.

Then— My eyes stop moving.

Everything inside me freezes. The marker slips from my fingers and hits the floor. I don't even notice.

My gaze stays locked on the date.

Two weeks. The anniversary is two weeks away. The warmth that has followed me all morning disappears so quickly it feels like someone flipped a switch.

My stomach drops. Not already.

I stare at the date. Two years.

Two years since the worst day of my life.

The apartment suddenly feels smaller. The air feels heavier. My pulse starts climbing.

I look away from the calendar, but it doesn't matter. The date is already burned into my brain.

Every year it happens. Every year the anniversary gets closer and I start counting down without meaning to. Every year the memories become harder to ignore.