The morning didn't arrive—it crept in, dragging its feet like it didn't want to be here.Gray light bled through the blinds, casting long, slanted shadows across the walls like bars on a prison cell. The room was still—too still. Not the kind of peaceful stillness you pray for, but the kind that makes you aware of every heartbeat, every breath, every absence.
Jas hadn't slept. Not really. He'd just lain there, staring at the ceiling, counting the seconds between the creaks in the walls and the sighs of the wind. The storm had passed overnight, but the thunder hadn't left his chest.
His body was numb, but his mind was louder than ever. It raced like a train with no brakes, heading toward memories he never wanted to revisit. Memories that knocked before they entered, walked in anyway, and refused to leave.
The clock ticked—tick, tick, tick—each one slicing through the silence like a scalpel.
The smell of the air was wet—not just from the rain, but from the pain that soaked the room. There was a heaviness in the atmosphere, like the walls were grieving with him. The coldness of the hardwood seeped through his socks as he stood, and the distant sound of dripping water echoed like a slow heartbeat.
In the kitchen, the coffee maker gurgled to life.Steam rose like spirits, whispering secrets he wasn't ready to hear. The bitter scent of caffeine curled through the air, but Jas didn't move. His hand trembled as he poured a cup, the handle cold, like touching grief itself.
He didn't drink it.He just held it—like it was a piece of normal he didn't recognize anymore.
He missed her.
But "missed" felt too small of a word.It was more than that.
He ached. Like something inside him had been ripped out, and now everything that filled that space was just… hollow. He was an echo of himself.
"I shouldn't have let her drive."
The thought came out of nowhere, uninvited, unforgiving.
"If I would've just stayed home. If I would've said something. If I would've…"
The guilt was a storm. A hurricane in his chest. It spun faster with every breath, crashing against his ribs, clawing at his throat. He gripped the countertop like it could keep him grounded, like it could keep him from getting swallowed whole.
The house wasn't a home anymore—it was a museum of memories.
Every corner held a ghost.The hallway still smelled like her vanilla candles.The couch cushions still dipped slightly where she used to sit.There was still a photo on the fridge—crooked, dusty—him and her at the park, arms around each other, his smile too big, hers even bigger.
He wanted to rip it down.He wanted to protect it.He wanted to scream.
And so he did.
He screamed until his lungs burned, until his throat felt raw, until even the silence screamed back.
But the walls didn't care. The wind didn't answer. The world just kept spinning, indifferent.
Grief was a thief.It stole his voice.Stole the colors from his world.Stole the taste from his food and the rhythm from his favorite songs.
It was a fog that rolled in at night and refused to leave.A weight he couldn't lift.A shadow that never moved, even in the sun.
The mirror mocked him.His reflection wasn't a person.It was a shattered boy pretending to be whole.
His eyes were sunken windows.His lips were tight lines drawn by sorrow.His shoulders slumped from carrying things no one could see.
When he stepped outside, the rain was softer now—a drizzle, a whisper.
But even that small sound felt loud.The way it touched his skin was like a memory.Gentle. Uninvited. Cold.
Each drop was a word unspoken, a hug never given, a goodbye that never came.
He stood in the middle of the yard, barefoot, clothes soaking fast, and he let the sky cry for him. Because he couldn't cry anymore.His tears were used up.Worn out.Turned into silence.
But then… he heard it.
Not really. But kind of.
Her voice.Soft. Warm. Wrapped in honey and heaven.
"Breathe, Jas. Baby, breathe. You're not broken. You're bruised. That's not the same."
He fell to his knees.
The grass was slick. The mud kissed his hands. His face tilted to the sky like it had the answers.
And for a moment…For just one, small, trembling moment…He felt her.
In the air.In the warmth that bloomed in his chest.In the wind that curled around his fingers.
Later, wrapped in a blanket that didn't smell like her anymore—but almost did—Jas sat by the window again. The coffee cup was warm now, refilled, held steady in his hands.
He wasn't okay.Not even close.But maybe—just maybe—he was alive.
And that had to count for something.
His phone buzzed.Malik.
"You good, bro? I'm down to just chill tomorrow. No pressure. We can hoop or just sit."
Jas didn't answer right away. He watched the sun push through the clouds like a promise.
He typed slow:
"Let's hoop. I need to move again."
And he meant it.
Not just his body.His heart.
The morning didn't arrive—it snuck in, dragging its feet, like it was reluctant to disrupt the lingering shadows of night. Gray light oozed through the blinds, stretching its fingers across the walls and casting long, slanted shadows that resembled bars in a prison cell. The room was suffocatingly still—not the comforting hush that wraps around you but the kind that amplifies every heartbeat, every sharp intake of breath, every painful void of absence.
Jas hadn't slept at all. He was a captive of his own thoughts, lying in the dimness, eyes pinned to the ceiling, counting the seconds between the creaks in the walls and the shivers of the wind. The storm that had raged through the night had moved on, yet its echoes remained, a low thunder simmering in his chest.
His body felt numb, while his mind roared with a cacophony of uninvited memories, rushing toward him like a train out of control. They crashed through the barriers he tried to erect, barging in unannounced, taking up space, refusing to be forgotten. Tick… tick… tick—the clock sliced through the stillness, each sound a cruel reminder of the time slipping away.
The air was heavy with dampness—not just the rain's residue but the lingering pain that saturated the room. It felt as though the very walls carried his grief, bowing under its weight. Jas stood on the cold hardwood, the chill seeping through his socks, while the distant sound of dripping water echoed like a heartbeat, slow and mournful.
In the kitchen, the coffee maker sputtered to life. Steam rose like lost souls, whispering secrets he wasn't ready to unravel. The bitter aroma of caffeine curled around him like a warm embrace, but he didn't budge. He poured a cup, his hand trembling around the cold handle, as if it held some semblance of normalcy he couldn't quite grasp.
He didn't drink it. Instead, he clutched it tightly, as though holding onto a fragile thread of a life he no longer recognized.
He missed her. But "missed" felt beneath the depth of his sorrow. It was a hollow ache that echoed through him, like a significant part of him had been torn away, leaving only a void. He was nothing but a ghost of his former self.
"I shouldn't have let her drive." The thought struck him like a lightning bolt, vicious and relentless. "If I had just stayed home. If I'd said something different. If..."
Guilt churned within him, a storm so fierce it threatened to explode. It twisted and turned, a hurricane locked in his chest, pounding against his ribs, clawing its way up his throat. He gripped the countertop, desperate for something solid to anchor him, lest he be swallowed by the dark tempest within.
The house had transformed from a home into a mausoleum of memories. Each corner whispered reminders of her presence.
The hallway still held the faint scent of her vanilla candles. The couch cushions bore the imprint of her laughter, where she had once nestled against him. On the fridge hung a crooked, dusty photo—him and her at the park, their arms wrapped around each other, his smile radiant, hers incandescent.
He wanted to rip it down. He wanted to protect it. He wanted to scream.
And so he did. He screamed until his lungs burned, until his throat was raw, until silence itself echoed back at him. But the walls held their ground. The wind remained indifferent. The world continued its spin, oblivious to his turmoil.
Grief was a thief, robbing him of his voice, draining the colors from his universe, stealing the taste from his food, and quieting the rhythm of his favorite songs. It rolled in like an oppressive fog at night and refused to dissipate, a burden he couldn't lift, a shadow that loomed large even in the daylight.
He glanced at the mirror. What he saw wasn't a person—it was a broken boy wearing a mask of false normalcy. His eyes were sunken, hollowed-out windows, and his lips were drawn tight, lines etched by sorrow. His shoulders sagged under the weight of unseen burdens.
When he stepped outside, the rain had softened to a gentle drizzle—a whisper that still felt overwhelmingly loud. Each drop was a lingering memory, uninvited yet familiar, cold against his skin. They were words left unspoken, hugs never shared, goodbyes that had never come.
Standing barefoot in his yard, clothes quickly soaking, he surrendered to the sky's tears. Because he had run out of his own. His tears were depleted, turned to silence.
But then he heard it. Not quite a sound, but more like a feeling.
Her voice. Soft. Warm. Laced with honey and the comfort of home. "Breathe, Jas. Baby, breathe. You're not broken. You're bruised. That's not the same."
He crumbled to his knees, the grass slick and cold beneath him. Mud clung to his hands as he tilted his face to the sky, searching for answers it didn't have. And in that moment… just one trembling moment… he felt her.
In the air. In the warmth unfurling in his chest. In the wind that danced around his fingers.
Later, wrapped in a blanket that almost smelled like her, Jas settled by the window once more. The coffee cup was warm in his hands, refilled and steadfast.
He wasn't okay. Not by a long shot.
But maybe—just maybe—he was still alive. And that had to count for something.
His phone buzzed, breaking the spell. Malik's name flashed on the screen.
"You good, bro? I'm down to just chill tomorrow. No pressure. We can hoop or just sit."
Jas hesitated for a moment, captivated by the sun forcibly pushing through the clouds, illuminating the world anew. He typed slowly, each word deliberate: "Let's hoop. I need to move again."
And this time, he meant it. Not just a physical movement. He needed to shift his heart, his spirit.
It was time to move.
His soul.
It was time to move.