Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 40

I hesitated. “You think it’ll change his mind?”

Inez grinned, sharp and bright. “I don’t care if it doesn’t. We’re not doing this just for him. Prom isn’t about perfection, it’s about presence.”

I looked up at the sky. It was starting to shift, warm gold into pale blue.
“I just… I miss when people believed in beautiful things without needing to dissect them first.”

She placed her hand on mine. “Then let’s remind them how.”

Inez had gone home first. She always leaves a little earlier when her head hurts or when the world gets too loud. I told her I’d be fine, that I’d lock up my smile and finish the day with grace.

But something felt strange in the air. The corridors were unusually hushed, like the school was holding its breath.

I walked slowly toward my car, letting the rhythm of my steps echo against the quiet. The last hints of sunlight slid between the trees, casting thin gold lines across the concrete. My shoes scuffed softly as I walked, and I tucked my hands into the sleeves of my cardigan, curling into myself. The wind was starting to carry the crispness of dusk. I could smell rust from the bike racks. Dust. That strange, metallic scent of tired places.

And then...
Shouting.

Rough, guttural. Unfiltered. The kind of sound that stops you mid-step because your body knows trouble before your mind does.

"Beat the smug out of that guy!" someone bellowed.

"He thinks he’s high and mighty!" another voice added, sharp with mockery.

The old school dump. Where they pile rusted chairs and broken tables. Where people think no one’s watching. My heart launched upward in my chest.

Matt.

I took off running.

The grass was uneven. I almost tripped. My bag banged against my hip, and my breath came short and sharp. The shouting grew louder... closer. My lungs burned, but I didn’t stop.

I turned the corner just in time to see a ring of students. Boys mostly. Shoulders hunched in cruel anticipation, their fists clenched around ego and adrenaline. And in the middle of them...

"Heyyyyy!!!" I screamed, louder than I’d ever screamed at school. "On count of three, I’m calling the teachers! One!"

Panic split the crowd.

They scattered in all directions, stumbling over chairs, grabbing their bags, shouting, swearing, laughing nervously as they fled. A few faces I recognized... boys who sit quietly in class, pretend to be angels. The silence afterward was deafening.

Matt lay alone in the dirt.

He didn’t move for a moment. Just breathed. Shallow and slow. His hair was disheveled, strands plastered to his forehead. There was a cut on his lip, and blood dripped from his nose in thick, ugly drops that darkened his shirt collar. His star-stamped jacket looked twisted, too big now that he wasn’t standing so tall. He looked… small.

I rushed to him and dropped to my knees.

"Matt..." My voice cracked around his name.

He lifted his head slightly. His eyes were glazed but stubborn. “You didn’t have to intervene...” he said, his voice rough and distant, like he wasn’t really here.

I didn’t answer. What could I say? That I couldn’t bear to see him like that? That part of me remembered the boy who used to bring two umbrellas just in case? That for all his distance, I still saw the ghost of that boy in him?

I slipped my arm under his back and hoisted him gently, slow and careful not to jar him. His weight leaned into me for a second, just enough for me to feel how tired he was.

We didn’t speak as I carried him to an old wooden bench nearby. The wood creaked under us, worn and forgotten like most things in this part of the school. I sat beside him. Let him breathe. Let him bleed.

The air was heavy with dust and sweat and rusted metal. Somewhere a bird called out, like the world didn’t just shift under our feet. I stared down at my shaking hands.

He looked at the ground, a faint trickle of blood running over his chin.

And I... I didn’t know who he was anymore.

But I stayed. Not because I had answers.

But because no one else did.

We sat in silence.
The kind that hums in your bones.
Matt wiped the blood from his lip with the back of his hand, smearing red across his knuckles. He didn’t wince. He just stared forward like he was somewhere else entirely.

I looked at him, really looked.
At the boy who once held my books without asking. At the friend who used to text me photos of clouds that looked like dragons. At the version of him that no longer existed.

“I’m not giving up on the old Matt,” I said quietly, but it felt like a scream inside me.

He didn’t turn to me. Just gave a small huff, half a laugh, half a dismissal.
“I’m not broken, Betty. And I’m no James.”
He leaned his head back against the wall, jaw tightening. “I’m not your broken thing that you feel needs fixing.”

My breath caught.
“Did I say you’re broken?” I asked, voice sharper than I meant. It cracked on the edge.

Silence again.

The breeze rustled the loose plastic of a broken chair nearby. Somewhere in the distance, a bell rang, just once, like the world wanted to interrupt us but didn’t have the courage to.

“I hate this version of you,” I said finally, staring down at my fingers, still stained with dirt and blood. “This… armor you’re wearing. The apathy. The cigarettes. The sharp tongue.”

Matt chuckled bitterly. “This version won’t get between you and James.”

I flinched. “This version isn’t my friend.”

“Maybe that’s a good thing,” he murmured, almost too softly to hear.

It stung. Worse than I expected.
Worse than anything he could’ve shouted.
Because this wasn’t anger anymore... this was resignation.

He stood up slowly, wobbled a bit, but didn’t reach for me. “Thanks for helping, I guess.”
His voice had that polite hollowness people use when they want to leave before you ask them to stay.

And then he was walking away.
Not limping. Not hurrying. Just… walking.
Like I wasn’t even there.

And maybe, in his world now, I wasn’t.