Strings of Fate: The First Loop

CHAPTER 52 - AND I LET HER GO...

It’s strange how peace doesn’t come like thunder. It slips in, like a breeze you didn’t know you needed until your chest finally rises with ease.

Monday morning, I aced a quiz in English. I didn’t tell anyone. Just slid it into my bag and walked on. Mr. Oxford clapped my shoulder when he passed my desk. “Looks like your brain finally caught up to your mouth.”

“Still waiting on the mouth,” I joked, and we both laughed.

After class, instead of rushing to the gym, I helped rearrange the chairs. Stayed behind and cleaned the whiteboard. No one asked. I just did it.

On the court, Coach made me team captain during a scrimmage. I passed more than I shot. I called time-outs not to show off, but to catch my teammates when they looked winded. When we lost by two points, I gathered them into a huddle and said, “We did good. Let’s learn from this.”

Drake blinked at me like I’d been possessed.

“Who are you?” he whispered again.

I just smiled. “Working on it.”

In Art class, I stopped drawing faces. I started drawing hands. Not because they’re easier, but because they’re harder. Every line matters in a hand. Every knuckle, scar, stretch of skin tells a story. Mr. Liao asked why.

“Because that’s where the holding happens,” I answered.

He paused. “That’s poetic, James.”

“Guess I’ve been listening to more than rap.”

When the old librarian Ms. Ruth dropped a stack of books, I knelt and helped her sort them out by genre.

She squinted at me through thick glasses. “Aren’t you the boy who ran through here last year pretending to be chased by zombies?”

“Reformed,” I said, grinning. “Mostly.”

She patted my cheek. “Well, welcome to the quiet.”

One afternoon, a younger student was crying outside the locker room. He’d been picked on. I didn’t even ask questions. Just sat next to him, slid my bottle of water to his hand, and waited.

He said, “Aren’t you that guy?”

“Probably.”

“You’re… not what I thought.”

“Neither was I.”

He wiped his tears and offered a half-smile.

I stopped checking her table. Stopped waiting at the gate. Betty was the same. Distant. Cold. Still glowing like the sun I could never catch. But I no longer moved because of her. I moved because it was right. Because I was tired of being a storm in every room I entered. Some days, I still ached for her like an old wound in the rain. But pain was no longer the compass.

Conviction was.

One night, I sat on the rooftop of my house, hoodie up, knees tucked in. I whispered into the wind, “Even if she never looks back… I’ll still become who I said I’d be.”

Because love, real love, doesn’t just fight to be chosen. It fights to become worthy, even when no one’s watching.

Then one day I recieved a text.

Matt: You still got that extra ball?
Me: Yeah.
Matt: Meet me at the old court after school?

No emojis. No double texts. Just an invitation. And for the first time in a long time, I didn’t read into it. I just said yes.