Beyond The Court

2. The weight of it all

I pulled into the school parking lot, letting the engine die slowly, the silence pressing against me. My body ached from the night run, the kind of ache that settles in your bones and makes everything feel heavier. But that's how I've been getting by lately. If I don't run, I think. If I think, I remember. And remembering... well, that just makes things worse.

Basketball's the only thing holding me together. It's like a lifeline, something solid when everything else feels like it's slipping away. I can't fall apart when I'm playing; the game demands too much focus, too much effort. It's the only thing left that's clear, that makes sense.

I grab my basketball bag from the back seat, shutting the door a little too hard as I step out. As soon as I walk into school, I feel the weight of everyone's stares. People always look at me like I'm some kind of celebrity around here. Maybe I am—college scouts from all over want me, and everyone else? They just want something from me, whether it's attention, validation, or more.

But I don't give them anything. I can't. I walk down the hallway like I'm on autopilot, my face set in stone, ignoring the greetings and the looks. People think they know me, but they don't. They just see what's on the surface: the star, the one who's supposed to have it all figured out.

"Hey, Izzi!" Derek's voice calls out, full of that annoying confidence. He leans against his locker like he owns the place, throwing me a wink.

I give him the same cold shoulder I give everyone else. I don't have time for this. I don't have time for *anyone.*

I reach my locker, throwing my bag inside with more force than I need to. The tiredness is hitting me hard today, pulling at me from all angles. But tonight, I've got a game, and I'll pull through because I always do. When I'm on the court, everything else disappears—the whispers, the expectations, the memories.

But then, there's *her.*

Like always, she's there. Kesley.

I catch a glimpse of her down the hall, laughing with her friends. Her laugh—the sound of it used to make my entire day. Now, it feels like a knife twisting in my chest. She's so close, but she's miles away from me. It's been years, and we barely talk anymore.

I hate it. I hate how much I miss her.

She doesn't know that, though. How could she? I've gotten so good at hiding it, pretending that I don't care, that I'm over her, over what we were. But seeing her, every damn day, is a reminder that I'm lying—to her, to myself.

I tear my eyes away from her before she notices me staring. I can't afford to get caught in that old trap again, the one where I think about everything we used to be and everything we could've been. Because it's pointless. Whatever we had is gone.

But I don't know. Sometimes I catch her looking at me when she thinks I'm not paying attention. Sometimes I wonder if she feels the same. But then I shove the thought away, because what would it matter? She's moved on. I have to.

The bell rings, snapping me out of my head, and I make my way to homeroom. Every step feels heavier, the tiredness digging in deeper. But I just need to make it through today. Then I can play. And for those two hours on the court, I won't think about Kesley or anyone else.

For those two hours, I'll be okay.