Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 43

Silence again... but this time, safe. Comfortable. Holy.

“I miss you,” I added.

She sighed. “I miss you more. Matt says I sound annoying when I talk about you.”

“He would,” I grinned. “Tell him he’s just bitter because I’ve got better hair.”

“He actually said that too.” She laughed. “Word for word.”

We sat like that, tethered across space and signal towers, just breathing, just being.

And for a second, the weight in my chest lessened.

She was still here.

Still choosing me.

Even with shadows creeping at the edges.

The sun was a little crueler that afternoon, laying its full weight across the court like it wanted to press us flat into the concrete. Coach had us on full drills... suicides, passing, shooting rotations. My shirt stuck to my back. My calves barked every time I sprinted. But still… it felt good. It felt earned.

Tim nearly ran into Drake during a passing drill. The ball flew wild, bouncing into Coach’s folding chair.

“Bro! That’s like the third time!” Drake yelled, wiping sweat from his forehead with the hem of his jersey. “Are you dodging the ball or just deeply afraid of commitment?”

Tim held up both hands in surrender. “I was trying to avoid running into your ego.”

“You couldn’t handle my ego even with GPS and divine intervention.”

“Divine intervention doesn’t work on hopeless cases,” I muttered with a smirk, catching the rebound and dribbling it back to half court.

Drake groaned. “Et tu, James?”

“Always,” I shot back, then launched the ball toward the hoop. Swish.

Tim clapped slowly, mock applause. “Okay, Apostle. Calm down.”

I laughed. It felt good. It felt light. I hadn’t laughed like that in a while, really laughed, not the polite kind you give when the world expects you to be okay.

As we ran another rotation, I caught sight of my phone lighting up on the bleachers beside my bag. Just a small glow and a buzz that didn't quite cut through the sound of sneakers skidding and whistles blowing. Probably Betty. A little “miss you” text. Maybe a blurry selfie of her with her sandwich or Corey making a face in the background. Maybe a message saying she wanted to nap after decorating, and could I call her before the bus ride home? My chest warmed. That thought was enough. I didn’t need to check it. I’d call her later. Hear her voice. Let the sound of her carry me all the way back home. The ball hit my palm again. Another pass, another run. The court was loud. But my heart was calm.

For now.

The sky outside had already dimmed to a navy blue, painted with soft streaks of gold where the sun had made its quiet exit. We were packed, showered, bags loaded beneath the bus. One by one, we boarded in a single file, sore, sleepy, and satisfied. Coach did a headcount like a shepherd herding sheep. I followed the others toward the back, settling into a window seat. Drake plopped down beside me, his earbuds already in, eyes half-lidded. Tim took the aisle seat, tapping on his phone, probably texting Inez or making some stupid meme with Coach’s face on it. I leaned my head against the cool glass. The engine hummed to life. That soft, lullaby rhythm of going home. I reached into my pocket, pulled out my phone. My thumb hovered over Betty’s name. Call her. Hear her voice. Let her be the last soft thing today.

But something caught my eye, a new message request on Messenger. No name. No profile photo. Just a gray silhouette. I shouldn’t have clicked it. God, I wish I didn’t.

But I did.

The screen loaded.

My breath stilled.

A series of photos, five in total. My stomach twisted on sight.

The first was Matt staring at Betty, that kind of look you save for someone you ache for. His eyes were soft. Too soft.

The second, Betty laughing, carrying bright cartolinas, Matt holding a stack of cardboard, both looking stupidly happy like they were building a world together.

Third, her hand in his hair. Casual. Intimate. Like they were speaking about something just for them. Her eyes were focused, his lips slightly parted. It didn’t look like friendship. It looked like a promise.

The fourth, both of them standing side by side near the back of the library, where the school’s old dump yard was. Broken chairs. Forgotten filing cabinets. They looked like a still frame from a sad indie film, backs turned to the camera but unmistakably them.

And the last photo.

God. That one...

Matt’s arms around Betty’s shoulders. Her hands around his waist. His head slightly lowered, lips too close to her temple, like...

Like he was about to kiss her.

The broken chairs behind them didn’t matter. The wreckage wasn’t in the background, it was now inside me. I tried to message the account. Nothing. The text wouldn’t go through. Blocked. Just like that. Whoever sent it, whoever decided to tear open my chest and pour salt into the most tender part, had done what they came to do. I stared at the screen for what felt like hours, then locked the phone and pressed it to my thigh with trembling fingers.

Outside, the trees blurred by under the dusk light. The sky was quiet. But inside me, everything screamed.

How could one anonymous message dismantle so much peace? How could the sight of Matt’s arms, where mine should be, ignite something so dark I barely recognized it? Anger. Jealousy. Fear. And maybe even… Satan himself.

I clenched my jaw. I trusted Betty. I trusted her. But I also knew Matt. Knew how he watched from the shadows and waited for the cracks to deepen.

And now… now I didn’t know what to think.

My fingers curled tighter around my phone.

Lord, what do I do when the devil doesn’t knock… but slides in through WiFi and weaponized timing?