Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 37

As the song swelled, I thought of him.... James. The way he loves me, imperfect and passionate. The way he holds pieces of me I didn’t even know were broken, and somehow, instead of shattering me more, he helps me hold them together. The way he needs me, not just in big moments, but also in quiet, ordinary ones.

Would I have made it through without him? The question drifted like smoke in my mind.

Inside me, I pictured the jar... a fragile thing, cracked but still holding. When I first started carrying grief, the emotions inside clashed and collided violently, no space between them. Anger banging against sorrow, fear tangling with loneliness, a wild storm trapped beneath glass.

But now, that jar feels different. Bigger. The cracks are still there, delicate lines that catch the light, but the emotions… they’ve settled. No longer wrestling or demanding. They simply exist beside each other... silent, calm, sleeping.

It’s not peace exactly... not yet... but it’s a quiet coexistence. A delicate truce.

I glanced up, the road stretching ahead like a ribbon of possibility. The music soared, Taylor’s voice carrying me forward, and for a moment, I let myself believe that maybe, just maybe, all the broken pieces could fit together after all.

"Nice car," James said with that crooked grin of his, one hand casually in his pocket as he leaned against the hood.

I didn’t even get a chance to reply before he wrapped his arms around me. His hug was warm and full, the kind that told me everything would be okay, even when the world hadn’t said a word yet. He kissed me... right there in the parking lot.... my back pressing softly against the car door as the sky above burned soft pink with the last threads of dawn.

"Thanks for the bracelet," I whispered, my voice caught somewhere between gratitude and memory. I traced the little wings dangling from my wrist. "It makes me feel like Mom is with me again."

His eyes softened. That rare kind of softness he only gives when he knows he’s hit something holy. He kissed my forehead. "Anything for you, buttercup."

Before I could say anything else, a voice snapped through the moment.

"Honestly, you both are getting unhinged."

Inez. Of course. She was half-jogging across the lot, Tim’s fingers laced with hers like they’d been born that way. She crashed into me with a hug.

"Use condoms, okay?" she added with zero hesitation.

I immediately made a sound like I just swallowed a fly. "Ew! We are not doing that," I muttered quickly, cheeks warming.

"Not until we get married," I added, trying to sound firm, but James just looked down at me like I’d told him the sky was blue and that somehow made him love it more.

"Girl, that’s such a long time to wait," Inez said, throwing her head back in a dramatic sigh.

"I can wait," James said simply, like he meant it.

Tim gave him a playful punch on the shoulder. "You better."

Inez glared at him like she’d personally destroy him if he didn’t.

I rolled my eyes, but there was laughter edging at my lips. “Let’s go. We’ll be late.”

We walked together toward the building, the four of us. And for a moment, it wasn’t about grief or guilt or survival. It was just us. Friends. Lovers. Somewhere between chaos and calm. Somewhere that felt like home.

First subject was with Mr. Oxford. He always arrived with a slight limp in his left foot and an armful of books that smelled faintly of dust and old exams. Today, he wrote only two words on the board in all caps: ME TOO.

“Write,” he said, not even turning to face us. “Your thoughts. Your wounds. Your opinions. Don’t try to be profound. Just be honest.”

The room fell quiet, save for the scratch of pens, the occasional sigh. The air was heavy, not with heat but with memories. I stared at the blank page for a few seconds too long. Then, I began:

"It always starts with silence. And ends with the same."

Halfway through my second paragraph, just as I was writing about how some stories are swallowed before they can even form words, there was a knock at the door.

Mr. Oxford didn’t look up. “Come in.”

A student poked her head in. “Mrs. Pamela wants to see Betty Finn.”

My pen paused mid-air. I could feel eyes flicker toward me. Again.

“She’s now definitely making it a habit,” Mr. Oxford muttered under his breath, just loud enough for everyone to hear.

I stood, packed my things slowly. The chair scraped too loudly against the floor. I left the classroom without looking back.

---

Mrs. Pamela’s office always smelled like overbrewed coffee and lavender air freshener. The blinds were closed, sunlight cutting jagged shapes through them. But what hit me first wasn’t the light. It was him.

Matthew Santos.

I froze for a heartbeat.

I hadn’t seen him in weeks. Not since that game. Not since James shoved him on the court and he punched him right on the face, and silence folded between us like a closed book. He had transferred homerooms after that. I thought he did it to avoid James. I didn’t expect he'd avoid me too.

But here he was.

Not the Matt I remembered. Not the boy with the combed hair and always-tucked-in shirt, who smelled like cologne and responsibility. This Matt wore a blue hoodie, hands sunk deep into its pockets, denim pants and rubber shoes scuffed at the toes. His hair was unbrushed, his eyes hidden behind the absence of glasses. Maybe he wore contacts now. Maybe he didn’t want to see the world so clearly anymore.

His face gave nothing away. Blank? Or maybe confident. Or maybe... just maybe... something deeper that didn’t fit in easy categories.

Mrs. Pamela gestured toward the chair across from her. “Ms. Finn. Sit.”

Her voice didn’t have the softness of invitation. It was a verdict, as always.

I sat.

“I’ve received numerous suggestions,” she began, her fingers steepled under her chin. “After what you did with Mr. Gray…” she trailed off briefly, letting the weight of unspoken history dangle. “That you should be partnered with Mr. Matthew here to organize the coming seniors' prom.”

There was no question mark at the end of that sentence.

She continued, “You’re both among the best-performing students. I expect a good turnout. Don’t let personal matters interfere.”

Her words were paper-cut clean. Precise, cold, and impersonal. Like we were two chess pieces being moved into place.

I looked at Matt. Still blank. Or was it calm? Something in him felt unfamiliar. Not better. Not worse. Just... unanchored.

He didn’t say a word.

Neither did I.

But something inside me... deep and low... shifted. A quiet warning bell, or maybe just the echo of a past I hadn’t finished burying.