cliché (phan)

prologue

It's overwhelming.

All of it.

It's overwhelming to cry yourself to sleep, then the next morning going to school and masking a smile.

It's overwhelming to push yourself so hard that you feel sick, but brushing it off, telling yourself that it's nothing.

It's overwhelming being the person everybody depends on. Especially when you fail, and they all shout at you and blame you, claiming that you didn't try your hardest.

It's overwhelming to scream into a void of nothingness, then keeping your mouth shut when all you want to do is yell.

So I guess that's how I ended up here.

As a child, I never liked the things my dad wanted me to do. For example, he signed me up for a tennis team and I ended up knocking my opponent out after I had thrown my racket along with the tennis ball.

He also signed me up for dance. I sprained my ankle in the first week.

He got me to join volleyball. I tore the net.

But then I heard about soccer. Yeah, that's it. That sport where people chase around a small, lifeless object. I fell in love with the sport. I watched it, I practiced it, I drew it, and wrote about it.

And that's when it happened: the boy's soccer tryouts. All I had to do was make the team, and maybe, just maybe, my dad would finally be proud that I achieved something.

I loved the adrenaline I felt during games. People screaming my name, wearing our team colors, the coach yelling at us to move faster. Kicking and dodging around the ball. My feet meeting and leaving the ground with every step.

My dad used to watch my games. Now he got a job, a noun better than me, than his own family. He doesn't come anymore.

My mom comes to every single one.

So here I was. I was running.

I was running and I was alone, and it was past midnight for sure. It was quiet, the only sounds being crickets chirping and my feet touching the damp grass. I was sweating. It was a weekend. The beginning of Thanksgiving break, to be specific.

I was crying, thinking of everyone and everything. I punted the ball in the air and spun on my heel, sprinting to catch it at my toes. My foot met the ball and I tossed it back, repeating the actions a few more times.

The ground was slippery. The moon was bright. My thoughts were loud. The city was quiet. My lungs were burning and my legs were aching. I wanted to stop, but I couldn't bring myself to.

It was getting blurry- my vision I mean. My ears were ringing and my heart was pounding so loud I thought it would wake the whole town up. I was a panting mess, my breaths forming into little clouds in front of me in the cold breeze.

And that's when it happened. I heard his voice and I turned, my eyes wide. I was a deer in front of headlights.

His blue eyes pierced mine like an arrow to a target. He was far away, his bag slung over his shoulder, soccer ball in his free hand.

"Phil," I murmured, my voice hoarse and body trembling. I took one step towards him, and stopped. I felt weightless. I felt nonexistent, but maybe I always had. Maybe I never mattered.

Then it was black as I felt myself hit the ground, the boy at the other side of the field calling out my name.