The venue hadn’t changed.
That was the first thing Zeke noticed as he stepped through the low threshold, blinking past the film of rain caught on his lashes. Same walls—exposed brick, painted over once and then regretted halfway through, so some corners showed a weird halfway job between vintage and forgetful. Same warped wooden floors, each step a complaint from years of boots, heels, stomps and sways. The planks beneath him groaned softly, like they recognised his weight, like they remembered the nights he came here taller in spirit, less weighted in chest.
The scent of the place hadn’t changed either. Ginger beer. Cheap whiskey. And something faintly herbal, probably someone’s leftover incense from a meditation group that met on Tuesdays. A cluster of fairy lights blinked overhead like a constellation on edge—flickering as if the stars themselves were anxious tonight.
But he had changed.
Zeke felt it in the soles of his battered trainers. Each step toward the mic stage wasn’t a walk—it was a drag, like something invisible had tied itself to his spine. Not fear. Not quite dread. Something murkier. A tightness behind the ribs, a fog in the gut, the kind of feeling that came when you weren’t sure if your shadow was following you in.
He paused just past the doorway, eyes sweeping the crowd.
Not too full tonight. The regulars dotted around in soft clusters, each table its own quiet orbit. A couple whispered over shared fries. Someone scribbled in a notebook, the flick of pen rhythmic. Near the back, half in shadow and half under the tired glow of a hanging bulb, sat Rayna.
Boots off. One foot up on the chair rung. Her sketchpad open on her knees, fingers streaked with charcoal. She always looked like she belonged in places like this. Like her body had shown up, but her soul was off somewhere else—sprawled across a skyline or floating above a poem only she could hear.
She spotted him. No smile, just a raise of two fingers. A quiet salute. The kind you gave soldiers and ghosts.
He nodded back, tight-lipped. Chest a little too full. Like breathing would let something spill.
The host was already at the mic—blue hair, nose ring, eyes bright with the kind of laugh that made people lean in. She riffed with the crowd for a moment, then shifted her weight with the mic still in hand.
“All right, folks,” she said, voice warm, “we’ve got a returning voice tonight. It’s been a minute. Give it up for Zeke Daniels.”
Applause bloomed politely. Some cheers, familiar ones. A supportive whistle from someone behind the bar. Not wild. Not huge. But enough. The kind that said, Welcome back, even if you’re not sure you belong.
Zeke took the walk to the mic like a man approaching thin ice. Not fast. Not slow. Careful. One hand brushed his jeans—habit, checking the folded poem was still there. It was. Warm with nervous sweat, edges soft from being handled too much.
He stepped onto the small wooden platform. The floor creaked. Of course it did.
The mic waited.
Tall. Indifferent.
He reached for it, adjusted it slightly with fingers that had lost their memory for this sort of thing. Cleared his throat. Unfolded the scrap of paper with both hands, holding it like something fragile.
The title was written in the corner.
“Static.”
He didn’t look at the crowd. Not once. Just stared into the lights. The paper. The weight in his chest that pulsed and pounded and begged to be let out.
YOU ARE READING
HALF GROWN
Teen Fiction"HALF GROWN" ... A novel about grief, growth, and the quiet kind of love that saves you slowly. Zeke Daniels is twenty and barely holding it together. Haunted by the death of his best friend Milo, suffocated by a city that feels more ghost than hom...
