Darius sat beside his father in the doctor's office, arms crossed, eyes low. His whole face said he didn't want to be there. Mr. Kingsley didn't say a word — just gave him a sharp look. Darius straightened up immediately, jaw tight, trying to look composed. But his fingers kept twitching against his arm, betraying the nerves he couldn't hide.
The doctor finished reviewing the scans and turned toward them.
"Everything looks fine," she said. "The headaches should fade over time. Just be more careful when playing. Gradual exposure. If he takes it slow, they should disappear in about three months."
Darius leaned forward. "So I can still play basketball?"
She nodded.
Darius smiled, relief flickering across his face. He turned to his father, hoping for a reaction — a nod, a word, anything. Mr. Kingsley looked back calmly, reminding him — without words — to stay composed. Darius's smile faded, replaced by a quiet, practiced neutrality. He leaned back in his chair, eyes forward, trying to mirror his father's restraint.
In the car, the silence stretched. The radio played softly. A song came on, something with rhythm, and Darius started bopping his head to the beat. Mr. Kingsley didn't comment.
But Darius's mind wasn't on the music. It was on the court — on the game, on the glitch, on the moment everything felt off. He thought about how to fix it, how to train smarter, how to research what happened. That was all he wanted: to play, to improve, to understand. He didn't want to waste time. He didn't want to be fragile.
"You want some McDonald's?" his father asked, eyes still on the road.
"Yeah," Darius said.
Mr. Kingsley turned into the next street, heading toward the drive-thru. Darius glanced at him again, searching for something — maybe approval, maybe warmth. But his father's face stayed unreadable.
At school, Malik moved slowly through the hallway, his bookbag slung over one shoulder. His muscles still ached from the weekend match against the Hawks. Every step reminded him of it. But it wasn't just soreness — it was the weight of how badly he'd played. He kept replaying the missed shots, the bad passes, the moment he froze under pressure.
Then came Trey and Zion, loud as ever. They threw themselves onto Malik from behind, and he hissed, shoving them off.
"Woah, man. What's up with you?" Zion backed off, hands raised.
"Played a game this weekend," Malik muttered. "Muscles are tight."
"Ha! You actually played for a team?" Trey laughed, walking backward in front of them. "They must be trash if they're putting you on."
"Whatever, bro. Like you guys have won anything recently," Malik said, voice dry.
"Not like we couldn't beat your lame-ass team. They're playing you, after all," Trey shot back.
Malik sucked his teeth. "What do y'all want?"
"Damn, no need to get emotional," Trey said. "We're just pulling your leg."
"Not today, man. I'm really not in the mood." Malik walked past them, not looking back.
Trey and Zion watched him go.
"What's with that dude lately?" Trey asked.
"You!" Zion pointed. "You're on his ass every day. Always yappin'." He stepped close to Trey, mimicking a talking mouth with his hand. "Yap! Yap! Yap!"
"Shut up!" Trey pulled his face away.
Malik spent the rest of the day in silence. He didn't speak to anyone. After school, he headed straight home, cutting through the back lot to avoid the crowd. His steps were slow, deliberate. He felt like he was dragging something invisible behind him.
When he walked in, the living room was dim, the TV glowing with the colors of a video game. Uncle Theo was planted on the couch, controller in hand, locked into his PlayStation.
Malik chuckled and dropped onto the couch beside him.
"Ayo unc, you always playing these games, man. When are you getting a job?"
"It's my day off, idiot," Theo replied, eyes still on the screen.
"You ain't gotta lie, unc. Everybody knows you don't have no job."
"I don't have to prove anything to you."
"Whatever, man." Malik shook his head, still smiling. "Is Darius back?"
"Yeah. I think he's studying. Or exercising. I don't know."
The room settled into quiet. The only sound was the game. Malik kept glancing at Theo, then at the TV, then back again. He wanted to speak, but didn't. Theo noticed.
He paused the game. "What?"
Malik blinked. "Huh?"
"You want to say something, or are you just gonna stare at me the whole time? It's weird, by the way."
"My bad, man… I just wanted to ask you something, but I don't know how."
"Then ask. What's holding you?"
Malik hesitated. "I don't know how to put this, but… doesn't Darius seem weird to you? Like, all this basketball stuff is cool, but he just seems… different."
Theo raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, it is weird. Considering he just woke up from a five-year coma a few months ago."
"Come on, man. Not like that." Malik leaned forward. "It's just… he seems different. Yeah, we chill, but he's not with me. I don't know if you hear what I'm trying to say."
"I hear you," Theo said. "But again — he woke up from a long coma. He was basically dead. And he forgot about us. So if it was me, and a bunch of people I didn't remember claimed to be my family, I'd watch myself too. At least until I figured out who they were."
He leaned back. "Just let him deal with this the way he thinks is best. Remember what his moms said — we support him however we can. So let's do that."
Malik nodded slowly. His face shifted — not just confusion, but guilt. He looked like someone carrying something heavy. Theo saw it.
"Hey…" Theo said gently. "It was never your fault. It was an accident. You gotta stop beating yourself up about it. You don't wanna go back to that place, do you?"
Malik shook his head. "Yeah."
He stood and walked up the stairs, head down. As he climbed, the memories came back — the day of the accident. Everything before it. Everything that led to it. The argument. The dare. The moment Darius fell. The sound of his head hitting the pavement. The silence that followed.
Malik reached the top step and paused. His hand gripped the railing. He didn't cry. He didn't speak. But his whole body felt like it was holding something in — something that hadn't been let out in years.