Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 46

-----James-----

I sat on the curb of the school parking lot, head in my hands, breath shaking. The pavement was still warm beneath me, clinging to the last of the day’s heat, but I felt cold all over. Numb. Hollowed out like some sinner after confession, but without the grace of forgiveness. The music still echoed faintly from the gym, muffled bass and laughter, like a memory that wouldn’t die. Or maybe it was just the ghosts in my head replaying the scene over and over again. Her body in Matt’s arms. The soft glow of the lights. The fake crown on her head tilting slightly like it never belonged there. Like it should’ve been mine to fix. Then me, interrupting the moment like a demon crashing a sermon. I saw red. I didn’t even think. I just moved. And then I heard it, the sound of my fist colliding with Matt’s face. Felt it, too. The jarring crack of knuckles meeting bone. The silence that followed, not relief, not pride, just… shame.

“What did I do…” I whisper to no one.

My voice sounded like it belonged to someone else. Some younger version of me who thought fighting made things better. Like pain was something you could trade to earn back love. But that’s not how it works, is it?

I clenched my jaw and looked up at the stars. They looked so clean. So far from all this mess. I used to believe there was order in the chaos, that somewhere out there, God was watching and weaving all of this into something good. Tonight? I didn’t know anymore. I hurt Matt. I humiliated Betty. And worst of all, I said the one thing I promised I never would.

“I’m done.”

The words came out like ash. Not fire. Not conviction. Just the dying breath of a boy who didn’t know how to stay. And she looked at me like she believed it. Like she finally understood what everyone else has always known, that I don’t fight. I run. I said I loved her. I meant it. Still do. But what kind of love punches a boy who never raised a hand? What kind of love demands ownership over moments it didn’t earn?

I exhaled through my teeth, my hands now pulling at my hair like maybe if I dug deep enough, I’d find the version of myself that wasn’t a disaster. Inez saw it coming. Matt took it quietly. And Betty…

Betty didn’t cry. She didn’t scream. She just looked at me with this terrifying stillness, like a stained glass window cracking without sound. And that was worse than any slap. Worse than being hated.

She looked like she was done, too.

I curled forward, elbows on my knees, forehead to my fists. I wanted to pray. But I didn’t know how. Not after everything. Not with these bloodied knuckles and this broken silence inside me. I wondered if this is what it feels like to crucify your own hope. To take the one good thing you had, the one person who saw light in you, and rip it to shreds because you didn’t know what to do with it. Because it was easier to ruin something than risk losing it. A car passed in the distance. The sound startled me. I didn’t even realize how quiet it had gotten. The parking lot was nearly empty now. Just wrappers on the ground, half-lit lampposts, and me.

James Andrew Gray. Prom King of nothing.

Then the rain poured. Not a drizzle. Not a polite apology from the sky. It came down like judgment, sharp, cold, relentless. Soaking through my shirt in seconds. Water slipped down my spine like penance, pooling at my feet as if the ground itself wanted to baptize me in regret. I didn’t move. I stayed there, hunched on the curb, fists limp at my sides, rain mingling with sweat, with blood, with the ache in my chest that had no name. Somewhere deep down, I think something inside me had shattered right along with it. A car stopped in front of me. I didn’t lift my head until the window rolled down.

Green hoodie. Pale skin. Eyeliner smudged like war paint from a hundred quiet battles. Olive. She didn’t look surprised. Just looked at me like she always did, like she saw through the noise and found the bones.