“Rest is productive too. So try resting more.”
---
~ Elizabeth ~
“So, wanna tell me about him?” Mom asked, turning to me just as I finished my nightly skincare routine. My face still glowed faintly from the moisturizer, and my fingers smelled like lavender and honey. The room was dimly lit, the soft hum of the fan blending with the quiet of the night.
I blushed at her question, heat rising to my cheeks. She was already tucked in her favorite satin pajamas, her hair loosely tied back. I, on the other hand, was in my usual cotton nightwear—comfy, breathable, and exactly how I liked it. I lay sideways across the bed, a fluffy cushion beneath my chest. Everything about the moment felt cozy, like a chapter out of a diary I didn’t know I was writing.
“What do you want to know about him?” I asked cautiously, not sure how much of my thoughts I was ready to share.
“Well… everything,” she said with a smile, her voice soft but curious.
I hesitated, the words gathering at the edge of my lips like they were waiting for permission. “As you’ve probably figured out already, we go to the same school… and, um… he used to be my bully.”
That last part came out like a confession. I frowned slightly, unsure if I should have said “used to” or “still is.” Lately, Patrick hadn’t done anything remotely cruel. He’d been… different. Kinder. Closer. And that made everything all the more confusing.
“Okay…” Mom’s voice was gentle, prompting me to go on.
“And well… we met here. Unexpectedly. And he’s been… nice to me since then.”
“Do you think he likes you?” she asked with that motherly gleam in her eyes.
I shook my head, quickly, too quickly. “No, Mom. I don’t think he does. I mean… he has a fiancée.” My voice wavered a bit. “Even though they don’t act like a couple at all… the fact remains.”
Mom looked at me thoughtfully. “Hmm… maybe he does like you, Hon.. I mean, you’re beautiful, intelligent, mature, thoughtful—what’s not to like?”
I rolled my eyes with a weak laugh, but inside, her words brushed over wounds I wasn’t sure had healed. “There are girls who are ten times better than I am, Mom… why would he look my way?”
“I wouldn’t bet on that, Lizz. You don’t see yourself clearly, sweetheart.” She leaned a bit closer, resting her head on her knuckles. “Why does he hover around you then?”
“Maybe he’s bored… maybe I’m just convenient company,” I muttered, though I didn’t even fully believe the words myself. Still, it felt safer to say them.
Now it was Mom’s turn to roll her eyes. “Have you seen the way he looks at you? He pays attention to the smallest details, Lizzz. That’s not boredom. That’s interesting.”
“Don’t all guys do that?”
“No, baby. Not like this,” she said firmly. “Luke told me Patrick hardly ever talks to girls when he’s here. But since you arrived? He’s practically orbiting you. That means something.”
I sighed. “It’s probably just because I remind him of someone. Or maybe because I’m new and unfamiliar.”
“Or maybe,” Mom said, scooting closer, “you matter more to him than he’s letting on.”
I didn’t answer. A lone tear escaped my eye, and I quickly sniffled, hoping Mom hadn’t noticed. But of course, she did.
“Oh, baby…” she whispered, moving over to my bed and pulling me gently into her arms.
I sat up slowly, leaning into her warmth. Her arms wrapped around me like they always had—soft, steady, safe. The smell of her perfume—vanilla and jasmine—lingered in the air. It reminded me of home. Of childhood. Of the safety I’d forgotten I needed.
“I love you, Lizzz… and I always will,” she whispered into my hair.
I nodded, the lump in my throat too big to swallow. “I love you too, Mom…” I said as I reached up to wipe her tears. Her tears confused me. Were they happy tears? Sad tears? A mix of both? I couldn’t tell.
All I knew was that I didn’t want her to let go.
---
Later that night, after Mom had gone to bed and the house had fallen into that hushed stillness that only night could bring, I picked up my phone.
Out of nowhere, I typed Patrick’s full name into the search bar on social media. My heart raced a little as I hit ‘Search.’
There he was.
His profile popped up within seconds—public, like he had nothing to hide. The first thing I noticed was his posts: countless photos and clips of basketball, of him mid-air, drenched in sweat and determination.
One post caught my attention. He was airborne, holding a basketball mid-flight like it was an extension of his soul. The caption underneath read:
“All the world could burn alive, but not my ball… my ball is my oxygen. I live for my ball, and it lives for me too.”
The words stunned me. There was a kind of rawness in them—a deep, passionate truth. And for some reason, it stirred something in me.
How had he found something he loved so fiercely?
Sure, I said I loved reading. And I did. But what else? What was my ball? The thing I’d give my soul to? I didn’t know.
‘Dive deeper,’ I heard Eliezer’s voice echo in my head, clear as ever.
She’d been gone for months, but her voice lingered like a melody I hadn’t forgotten. At her funeral, someone said she’d never truly leave me—and oh, how right they were.
I closed my eyes.
I listened.
And then… the melodies began to surface. Gentle, forgotten tunes. And with them, a memory.
The guitar.
Eliezer’s favorite. She had loved instruments—especially the guitar. And I’d loved watching her. But I never dared to try, too afraid of being called her copy.
But what if… I wasn’t copying her?
What if, instead, I was continuing something beautiful she started? What if I’d denied myself a part of me because I feared comparison?
I opened my eyes.
Something had shifted.
Patrick’s page kept me hooked for minutes—maybe hours. His words, his movements, his expressions. He wasn’t just a boy who used to make my life hard. He was laid. Human. Passionate. And maybe, just maybe, a little lost too.
Was he just another broken soul, trying to find light in the dark?
Could I be the one to offer it?
Just then, my phone dinged.
: Still up?
It was him.
I smiled, heart fluttering in a way that made me blush.
“Yeah.”
: What are you up to?
I could almost imagine the curiosity in his voice, the slight tilt of his head.
“Scrolling. You?”
: Reading a poetry collection I found randomly.
My smile widened. He read lots of poetry? I didn’t expect that. Another layer I hadn’t seen.
“Oh… okay.”
: Any plans for tomorrow?
My heart thudded at that. Slowly. Loudly.
“Nah. You?”
: Wanna go to a café with me tomorrow?
Wait. Was he… asking me out?
I bit my lip, blushing even more. My face was a mess of red right now.
“Don’t you have practice tomorrow?”
: Nah… it’s Saturday. Got the day off.
“Okay.”
 : So you coming?
“Yup.”
: Great. I’ll pick you up at 10.
“Alright.”
I was so glad he couldn’t see me right now. I’d be mortified.
: Okay. Goodnight, Elizabeth. See you tomorrow.
“Same here.”
I turned off my phone and placed it on the bedside table, then laid flat on my bed, staring at the ceiling.
My heart was still racing. I didn’t need anyone to tell me why.
Even if I wasn’t ready to admit it out loud…
I knew.
I was falling.
Hard.
---
A/N: What do you think of this chapter, guys?