Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 52 - AND I LET HER GO...

“The screw-ups. The betrayers. The ones who get it wrong when it mattered most.”

“You’re asking the wrong question.”

“What’s the right one?”

She looked me dead in the eye. “Can you still become someone she deserves... even if she never comes back?”

I didn’t answer. I just looked at the guitar again. At what was left. Inez reached out and gently placed a hand on mine.

“She was never your prize, James,” she said. “She’s her own story. So are you. The question is, what do you want the next chapter to be?”

Somehow, what Inez said shifted something in me. Courage.  One day, I just found myself stopped checking if she saw me. Stopped leaving gifts. Stopped performing.

That week, I walked into Mr. Oxford’s class early, no swagger, no smirk. Just a pencil in my hand and a notebook already open.

He looked surprised. “You okay, Gray?”

“No, sir,” I answered truthfully. “But I’m here.”

He just nodded. That was enough.

During PE, I tied my shoes tight and focused. I passed the ball. Played defense. When I made a shot, I didn’t celebrate. When I missed, I didn’t sulk. Coach watched me from the bleachers.

“You’re not your usual cocky self,” he muttered.

“Trying something new.”

“Yeah?”

“Teamwork.”

He smirked. “About time.”

On Thursday, I studied with Drake at the back of the library. First time we weren’t talking about girls or parties or someone’s new haircut.

He looked up from his notes. “You’re really doing this, huh?”

“What?”

“Trying.”

I shrugged. “Doesn’t count if it’s only when people are watching.”

Drake leaned back, arms crossed. “You miss her that bad?”

“I hurt her that bad.”

For a second, he didn’t speak. Then he nodded. “You’re still my guy.”

Friday night, Drake invited me to a party.

“I’m good,” I said.

He blinked. “Who are you?”

“I’m… figuring that out.”

I stayed in. Helped my mom wash the dishes. My dad passed behind us, paused, then ruffled my hair, something he hadn’t done in years. He didn’t say anything. Didn’t have to.

Saturday morning, I stood in front of my bedroom mirror. Looked at myself, not how I used to, with ego or insecurity, but like a man in a confession booth.

“I hurt someone,” I whispered. “I really hurt her.”

Then I opened my closet. Took out the old basketball poster, the one I’d clung to like a prophecy. I rolled it up, not because I gave up on dreams, but because some dreams weren’t about proving yourself. Some were about becoming yourself.

Sunday, I went to church alone. Not for forgiveness. For clarity. When the pastor said, “Let love be genuine. Abhor what is evil. Hold fast to what is good,” I nodded, not out of ritual, but recognition. For the first time, I prayed without asking for anything. I just listened. And for the first time in a long time, the silence didn’t scare me.