Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 11

I was getting better at it, acting strong. They say if you pretend long enough, your body starts to believe it. That maybe strength can be conjured like a spell, summoned by posture and forced laughter. That if you walk tall, you’ll forget what it feels like to crawl. That pretending to be okay isn’t dishonest, it’s just rehearsing hope until it sounds convincing.

James nudged me with his elbow. “So… are we pretending last night didn’t happen, or should I go ahead and write a song about it?”

I laughed. It was small and unexpected, and it made something in me loosen.

“I didn’t know you wrote songs.”

“I don’t,” he said, feigning offense. “But for you, I might make an exception.”

I rolled my eyes. “Please don’t. The world’s not ready for a ballad about a near-kiss and sand in our shoes.”

“Oh, but the sand was very symbolic,” he grinned. “Messy, everywhere, a little irritating, but kind of beautiful when the light hits it right.”

I glanced at him, caught off guard by how sincere he could be in the middle of a joke.

“Maybe you should write the song,” I said, quieter now.

He didn’t answer, but the smile didn’t leave his face.

People looked at us as we passed, some curious, others whispering. I knew what it looked like. I knew the stories they were already spinning. But for the first time in a long time, I didn’t care.

When we reached my homeroom, James stopped and handed me my bag.

“Here you go, beach girl.”

“Thank you, sand poet.”

He grinned again, and this time, it reached all the way up to his eyes. “I’ll see you later.”

And just like that, he walked off, disappearing into the crowd like he hadn’t just made the day feel lighter.

I stood in front of Room 109, still holding the warmth of his presence like a secret in my hands.

And then I walked in, wearing my strength like armor, stitched together with smiles and sarcasm.

Because sometimes, that’s how you survive the day.

Room 109 felt colder than usual. The fluorescent lights hummed overhead, half-heartedly trying to chase the sleep from our eyes.

I slid into my seat beside Inez, who was already mid-rant to herself about how “Tim is literally the worst texter but also the best flirt and it’s honestly so confusing, like does he want to drive me insane or is this some weird love language where ghosting equals affection?”

She turned to me and paused, mid-breath.

“Whoa. You look exhausted.” She narrowed her eyes like she was inspecting a crime scene. “B, did you even sleep?”

I shrugged, resting my cheek on my palm. “A little.”

“Like, a nap little or REM-cycle little?”

“Somewhere in between.”

She tsked, then reached over to straighten my collar like a mother hen. “Girl, your under-eyes are staging a rebellion. You need to sleep. Real sleep. None of that insomnia-fueled overthinking crap.”

And just like that, she was off again.

“Anyway,” she leaned in, voice lower now but eyes practically glowing, “Tim and I were on the phone last night until, like, 2 a.m. He was telling me about his childhood dog, named Dog, I know, tragic name, right? But also, he cried when she died, and now I’m emotionally invested in this imaginary Labrador I’ve never met. Also, he said I have a ‘radio voice,’ which is weird but cute, right? Or maybe creepy. I don’t know anymore.”