Rules for the Breaking

Chapter 1

"There's a confidence in your stance, a sort of...unspoken charisma. It's in the way you move, the way you laugh. You're not trying to show off or demand attention; it just happens naturally."

Her words washed over him like the gentle waves lapping at the shore, revealing things he had never contemplated about himself.

"And then," Sheila continued, her voice playful yet earnest, "there's the vibe you have. You're completely comfortable in your own skin, not just because you're at the beach or because it's hot. It's like you've embraced who you are, and that," she paused, her fingers momentarily tightening their gentle grip on his jeans, "that is incredibly attractive."

Chris felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the bonfir envelop him. Sheila's flirtatious teasing, her adoring gaze, and the tone of her compliments stirred something.

The blare of the returning alarm snapped Chris back to reality. The clock on the nightstand declared it was now 6:36 AM, and with a heavy sigh, he stepped over to slide the switch off, the warmth of the memory with Sheila fading into the stuffy air of his bedroom. The remnant of his dreamlike memory faded and his gaze returned to his reflection.

A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, recalling those words on the beach and the advice his older brother, Ben, had shared with him long ago. "Chris," Ben had said, "you'll start to care about how you look the moment the first girl notices you. Trust me, it'll change everything."

Though Chris liked to maintain a cool, casual facade, preferring to seem indifferent to the opinions of others, something he definitely picked up from Ben, but that first female attention had sparked a change. Ben was right, from that day Chris started to pay attention, not so much out of vanity, but out of the confidence her admiration began to give him in how he presented to the world.

Gauging his reflection, he adjusted the jeans a bit lower before glancing down at the pair of Converse Chuck Taylors lying haphazardly where he'd left them the night before. They were more than simply shoes; each scuff mark a chapter in his story. The white rubber soles were stained with memories, the black canvas faded to a soft gray from wear. They had been with him for long enough now that he wondered if size ten and a half was going to be where he stopped growing.

He crouched down, his fingers brushing against the cool floor, and picked them up. The laces were loose, stretched from the many times he'd slipped them on and off in a hurry, always eager to move. With practiced ease, he slipped into them, the familiar fabric encasing his feet like a second skin. He never wore socks with them; he preferred the feel of the canvas against his skin, loose and comfortable, unencumbered over his bare feet. This was how Chris always preferred to be: direct, straightforward, without unnecessary layers.

As Chris settled into his Chucks, grounding him, he turned back to the closet, his gaze lingering on the rack of clothes. Among them, the denim shirt hung prominently, like a beacon of his identity. It wasn't any old shirt; it was the shirt, a piece so infused with his essence that to see it was to see him.

He approached it with reverence, fingers brushing against the fabric, taking in its weight and texture. The shirt was faded from the sun, the denim soft to the touch from countless washes, its color a testament to the many days it had seen. To Chris, it wasn't a mere piece of clothing; it was armor, a protective layer when the world required one.

Before he draped it over his shoulders, Chris stepped back to the mirror, assessing the stark contrast of his bare torso against the room's muted colors. This was him, unfiltered and real. He hesitated, preferring the absence of fabric against his skin, to reminisce of California days. Summer days strung together, sometimes into weeks, unencumbered by any shirt. The touch of the breeze, the warmth of the sun, the liberation of his skateboard. These were the moments Chris was most himself.