CHANGE- uswnt

sweet nothing

Later that night, I moved back into my old hotel room. With Mallory.

There was no dramatic announcement, no bags packed in anger. Just a quiet knock on her door and a soft, "Hey, can I...?"

She opened it in one second flat and stepped aside like she'd been waiting for me.

She didn't ask questions. Didn't say finally or it's about time. Just moved my crutches out of the way and turned down the extra bed like she'd always expected me to end up back here.

I stood awkwardly in the doorway for a few seconds longer than necessary, not really sure what to say. Something about being sorry. Something about being exhausted. Something about not wanting to be alone anymore. But none of it came out.

Instead, I walked in slowly and sat down on the edge of the bed. I could still smell the same lavender lotion Mallory used, could see her folded laundry in the corner, her slides kicked haphazardly under the desk. It felt lived-in. Familiar. Safe.

"You can have the bed closest to the window again," she said, sitting on hers cross-legged and glancing over at me. "I know you like waking up to the sun."

I blinked, surprised. I hadn't told her that.

"I'll stay on the floor if you want space," I said quietly, immediately regretting saying anything at all.

Mallory raised an eyebrow. "Reese, if you try to sleep on the floor with a torn meniscus, I'm calling Emma and telling her you've lost your mind."

That made my lip twitch. Almost a smile.

I nodded and eased back onto the mattress. She turned off the light. The room fell into the kind of quiet that wasn't empty, just soft.

I thought I'd feel embarrassed. Like I'd lost some battle. But instead, I just felt... less alone.

I lay on my back, staring at the ceiling. My knee throbbed with a dull, persistent ache, but it wasn't the worst part anymore. The worst part was still in my chest. That hollow pressure that wouldn't go away. That constant need to say something, to scream or cry or break something, and the equally strong instinct to stay completely silent.

A minute passed. Then two.

Mallory shifted in her bed.

"I know it's still hard," she said into the dark. "I don't expect you to bounce back right away."

I didn't say anything.

"But I meant what I said before. You're not broken. You're not a burden. You're still part of this team, whether you're playing or not."

Something in me flinched. I wanted to believe her. God, I wanted to. But it still felt so far away — like someone else's life, someone else's future.

My voice was barely above a whisper when I answered. "You really think I'm going to come back from this?"

"I don't think," Mallory said. "I know."

She said it with so much certainty that it hurt.

The room stayed quiet for a while after that. But it wasn't uncomfortable. Just full.

Eventually, Mallory's breathing evened out. I knew she was asleep.

I stayed awake.

•••

The next morning, the sunlight slipped into the room through the cracks in the curtains, hitting the floor in long golden stripes. I should have felt better. I should have felt more ready. But instead, my knee still ached, and that hollow feeling in my chest hadn't gone away.