Four Years Ago
Darius sat cross-legged on the carpet, his body still, his eyes locked on the television. The cartoon was loud and fast, full of bouncing colors and exaggerated voices, but he didn't laugh or react. The rest of the room faded behind the screen's glow. He was completely absorbed, not just watching — hiding.
The basketball hit the side of his head with a soft thud. He flinched, turned sharply, and saw Malik standing in the doorway, smiling with the ball tucked under one arm. Darius's face twisted in irritation.
"What do you want?" he snapped.
"Wanna play some ball?"
"No." Darius turned back to the screen, his voice flat.
Malik stepped into the room, bouncing the ball once. "Come on. You're always watching TV. You should come outside."
"No. You can go play by yourself."
"I've been playing by myself this whole time," Malik said. "I want to play with someone."
Darius didn't answer. He kept watching, unmoved.
Malik sucked his teeth and turned toward the hallway. "If I knew it'd be this boring to stay here, I wouldn't have come." He disappeared into the kitchen, the sound of the bouncing ball trailing behind him.
A few minutes later, Darius's mom walked in. Her tone was gentle, but firm.
"Darius, go outside and play with Malik."
"But Ma, I'm still watching."
"You've been watching that all morning. Go outside."
Darius looked past her and saw Malik standing behind her, smiling like he'd won something. He switched off the TV and followed him out to the front yard, dragging his feet.
They started playing in front of the garage. Malik was faster, smoother, more confident. He dribbled with ease, spinning and faking, laughing as he moved. Darius chased him, trying to keep up, but his movements were stiff and uncertain.
"Move your feet!" Malik said, teasing.
"Stop showing off," Darius muttered.
He lunged and slapped the ball out of Malik's hands. Malik stepped back, surprised. Darius grabbed the ball and tried to dribble, but Malik stole it back with ease. Darius reached again, trying to snatch it, but his hand hit Malik's wrist. The ball bounced off his foot and rolled into the street.
They both watched it go.
Malik looked at him. "Go get it."
"You dropped it."
"You hit my hand."
The ball kept rolling, slow and steady, toward the other side of the street.
"Go on then," Malik said.
Darius stepped off the curb, annoyed.
The car came fast. Tires screeched. The engine roared. Darius didn't see it. Malik did.
He saw the impact — Darius's body lifting off the ground, twisting in the air, hitting the pavement with a sound that didn't match the moment. The ball bounced once and stopped. The driver slammed the brakes and jumped out, shouting.
Malik couldn't move. His legs locked. His throat closed. He stood frozen, watching.
The front door burst open. Darius's parents ran out. His mom dropped beside him, screaming. His dad shouted at the driver. Neighbors came out. The noise blurred. Malik stood still, his body numb, his mind blank.
Malik sat in the waiting room, knees pulled to his chest, his back pressed against the wall. The room was quiet, but not peaceful. His aunt was crying. His uncle was pacing. No one spoke. No one looked at him.
The doctor came back. Malik didn't hear the words. He saw his aunt fall to her knees, her hands shaking, her voice breaking. That was enough. Darius was gone.
Malik didn't cry. Not then. He just sat there, staring at the floor, trying to understand how a game had turned into this.
Weeks passed and the house changed. Every room felt heavier. The silence wasn't just quiet — it was thick. Malik didn't speak to anyone. He moved carefully, like noise itself might break something. Every time he saw Darius's mom, she was crying. Every time he saw his uncle, he looked away.
He remembered the day the driver came to apologize. He didn't understand the words. He remembered the sound of Darius's mom — loud, broken, raw. He remembered standing in the hallway, listening, unable to move.
He blamed himself. Not in words, but in the way he avoided mirrors. In the way he stopped playing. In the way he sat alone at night, staring at the ceiling, waiting for sleep that never came.
Then Grandma Nandi came to stay. She prayed for Darius to wake up. Malik joined her. Every night, he sat beside her, eyes closed, whispering the same words. Not because he believed they would work — but because he didn't know what else to do.
Uncle Theo saw it. He didn't ask questions. He sat with Malik. He prayed with him. He talked to him, slowly, carefully, like he was rebuilding something fragile. Malik listened. He didn't speak much, but he listened.
The guilt stayed. It didn't fade. It settled in his chest, quiet and constant.
Until the day Darius woke up.
Malik cried for hours. He didn't hide it. He didn't try to explain it. The relief came fast and full, like something had been unlocked. Darius was alive. He was back.
Present Day
Malik walked past Darius's room. The door was open. Darius was on the floor, doing push-ups. His back was damp with sweat. His breath was steady. His focus didn't break.
Malik stopped at the doorway. He didn't speak. He didn't move.
He remembered the accident. The hospital. The prayers. He remembered the promise — the one he made when Darius couldn't speak, couldn't move, couldn't hear him. He hadn't broken it. Not yet.
"I'll try harder," he said quietly. "I'll be better."
Darius looked up. "What are you looking at?"
"N-nothing. Just thinking."
"You're thinking while watching me train?" Darius raised an eyebrow.
"Ewe, no! The heck, man. Don't make it weird." Malik waved him off, his voice sharp but familiar.
Darius chuckled and went back to his push-ups.