Brandon's POV
The decision gnawed at me like a chip lodged too deep under the skin to pull out. All day it sat there, digging into my chest, emptying me out piece by piece.
I couldn't focus in extra classes. Numbers smeared into meaningless shapes, words on the board dissolved before my eyes. My pen tapped against the desk until the kid in front of me shot me a glare. I stopped—only for my leg to start bouncing instead.
Mr. Carlson's voice droned on about literary themes, but all I could hear was Seth in the hallway: "I just wanted to remind you about the very important gig we're supposed to go to tomorrow. My first break, bro. You promised."
Then Jason's text burned across my memory: "Mr. Pat said we're back to the initial arrangement. Don't screw this up."
Two hands pulled at me from opposite directions, each demanding pieces of me I couldn't give.
By my last class, I was wrecked—drained, like I'd been running all day without moving an inch.
