Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 12

I woke up to bass drops and broken syllables---budots, blaring from the neighbor's old speakers like they were trying to summon spirits through chaos. It was the kind of sound that could rattle your soul loose if you weren't anchored.

But strangely, I wasn’t annoyed.

Because for the first time in a long while, I didn’t wake up from that dream. No tangled sheets. No breath caught in my throat. Just the dull thump of music bleeding through our thin walls and the sun cracking its knuckles through the blinds. Maybe my subconscious decided to rest. Or maybe it just got bored of replaying the same sorrow in different costumes.

I reached for my phone out of habit more than intention. Notifications blinked like sleepy eyes.

One from James.

> “Excited for later. What will you wear?”

I smiled. It felt ridiculous how one line could fold the whole world into a simpler shape. Like suddenly, I wasn’t the girl grieving in secret---I was just someone going on a date.

I typed without thinking:

> “Just my usual attire. I have a pink cottage dress here, maybe that. Mom likes that.”

Send.

And then silence. Not from the phone, but from me.

Because it hit me, seconds later, how easily I said it. How natural it felt to bring her up. My mom. My ghost. My heartache. I didn’t preface it. I didn’t cushion it. I just... offered it.

Maybe because James doesn’t flinch when I talk about her.
He doesn’t rush to fix my grief or pretend it’s poetry.
He just listens. Or tries to.

And there’s something sacred in being understood without being solved.

I wonder if that’s what healing starts to look like, not in epiphanies, but in moments where your grief can breathe around someone without choking.

I didn’t want to stay indoors. Not today.

Maybe it was the stillness in the house. Or maybe I was afraid if I sat too long, my thoughts would circle back to the ache again, like vultures around a wound.

So I slipped on my sandals, tugged a jacket over my dress, and headed out for a walk around the neighborhood. Just a quiet stroll, nothing specific, just sidewalk cracks, parked cars, distant dogs barking. But it felt good to move, like maybe if I walked far enough, I could outpace my sadness.

And then I saw him.

Matt.

Jogging toward me, his pace slow and steady, sweat clinging neatly to his forehead like it belonged there. Even his exhaustion looked polished.

When he noticed me, he slowed down and pulled out one of his earbuds.

“Morning,” he said, offering a small smile.

“Morning,” I replied, adjusting the sleeve of my jacket.

We started walking side by side. Not fast. Just... enough.

We talked about school. Teachers. Homework. The usual scaffolding of conversation we built to avoid the real things underneath.

Then, without really meaning to, I asked, “Why do you always try to be perfect at everything?”

He looked at me. Not startled, just thoughtful.

“I guess,” he said slowly, “because people expect it. Somewhere along the way, I got labeled that way; the reliable one, the golden boy, the guy who gets things right. And when you get used to people clapping for your every perfect score or complimenting your organization, it becomes harder to admit when you're just tired. Or when you're... not okay.”