The day I take my first steps without the brace, it rains. Not a dramatic downpour, not even proper thunder. Just a steady spring drizzle that soaks the porch and slicks the pavement like someone ironed the sky flat and forgot to lift the press.
Nathan's standing on the curb like he's guarding something sacred—umbrella in one hand, phone in the other. Ethan sits cross-legged on the porch rail, camera app open, hood up. He offers a grin when I limp outside. "Cue epic montage music."
"I'll fall," I warn. My sock sticks to the brace strap.
"You've done worse," Nathan says. "You fell with style."
"That was a head injury."
"Still stylish."
The door creaks shut behind me. I glance down the sidewalk. It's not long. Maybe thirty feet to the mailbox and back. But without the brace, my ankle feels like glass pulled from fire—thin, reshaped, brittle at the edges.
Nathan tosses me a rain jacket. "We don't have to do this."
"I want to," I lie.
Ethan slips down beside me. "We'll be right here. Every step, Mas."
My hands curl at my sides. I nod once, tug the zipper up, and step into the rain
The first step hurts.
Not a sharp stab, more like a protest, a hiss under my skin.
I pause, adjust my weight, try again. By step five, I'm sweating.
Step eight, breathing like I just swam a relay. But I don't stop.
Not even when the sidewalk tilts, or the wind slips under my jacket, like fingers.
Ethan trails beside me, not touching, just mirroring.
Nathan walks backwards in front of me, counting steps under his breath. I reach the mailbox, slap it like a swimmer hitting a wall, and turn.
On the way back, the pain stops being fear and becomes fact. I start to believe I can do this.
When I reach the porch, I'm shaking—but standing.
Nathan presses stop. "Two minutes, sixteen seconds."
"World record," Ethan says.
"Shut up," I wheeze, but I'm grinning.
Ethan pulls his hood back, hair plastered to his forehead. "You wanna sit or do the victory lap now?"
"I wanna not die."
Nathan snorts, slipping the stopwatch into his pocket. "Recovery goal achieved."
I let myself sag into the porch chair, water dripping from the sleeves of my jacket, and exhale for what feels like the first time in weeks.
"I felt every inch of that," I tell them, breathless.
"And you made it," Nathan says.
"For now," I mutter, towel muffling my voice. "Ask me tomorrow."
Tomorrow comes faster than expected. My ankle's swollen, my legs ache, but it's not the pain that keeps me in the shower too long—it's the noise. The silence. The need for the steam to blot everything out.
Forty minutes later, I step out red as a lobster and shaking.
The bathroom mirror fogs so thoroughly I don't have to see my own face. I towel off in slow, practiced motions, each one part of a routine I thought I'd broken.
YOU ARE READING
Submerge
Teen FictionMason was once a rising star, a record-breaking swimmer with college scouts watching and medals around his neck. But after tragedy cracks his family apart, the boy who once felt at home in the water now flinches at its touch. Haunted by memories he...
