The Pages Within [BxB]

The Assignment

I've never been the type to lose myself in books. Sure, I'll read what I have to for class, but English? Essays, poetry, dissecting words? Nah, that's always felt like something for people who have the luxury of sitting around thinking about life's deeper meaning. I'm more comfortable on the field, where things are clear-cut, tangible. Out there, you either win or lose. No room for metaphors or poetic bullshit. But here I am, walking into Professor Walters' class, because this gen-ed is a requirement if I want to graduate on time. I sit through it, every monotonous session, waiting for it to be over, barely keeping my head from hitting the desk.

Today, Walters decides to drop a journal assignment on us, and I can feel my brain shutting down the second he starts talking about it.

"Self-exploration," he says, like it's some groundbreaking concept. "Every day, I want you to write about anything. Stream of consciousness, reflections, thoughts, whatever comes to mind. This is for you to get to know yourself."

I almost roll my eyes at the word self-exploration, but I stop myself. David the quarterback doesn't roll his eyes. He doesn't show weakness. Instead, I give Walters the same neutral, polite expression I've mastered over the years. I can't afford to fail this class, so if it means playing along with this bullshit journal assignment, then fine. I'll write something down, check the box, and move on.

When class ends, I stuff the journal into my backpack like it's any other piece of homework. I don't plan on giving it a second thought. But later that night, I'm sitting at my desk, and the room feels too quiet. It's just me, the journal, and the blank page staring back at me. Ava texted me goodnight hours ago, and the guys are probably out blowing off steam. I could've gone with them. Maybe I should've. But instead, I'm here, alone, staring at this damn journal.

I pick up the pen, start tapping it against the page, waiting for the words to come. But the problem is, I know what I'm not supposed to write. The shit I've been pushing down for months, pretending doesn't exist, trying to forget about every time I lace up my cleats or throw another perfect pass.

I start simple, writing what everyone expects from me.

Day 1.

Nothing much happened today. Practice was long. Coach is riding us hard for this weekend's game. Ava texted me about some event next week that she's excited for. I'll probably go, but honestly, I'm already tired just thinking about it.

The words are flat. They don't mean shit. It's like I'm just scribbling down what they all want to hear. This is the version of me everyone sees—the guy who has his life together, who never breaks, never cracks. But I can't stop thinking about how it's all a fucking lie.

I sit back in my chair, staring at the page. The tightness in my chest is back, the same one that's been pressing down harder and harder these last few months. I know exactly what it is. I've known for a while. But I've been too much of a coward to face it. Not even here, in the privacy of my own room, where no one else can see.

But Walters said this journal is for me, right? No one else will read it. No one has to know.

I pick the pen back up, my heart pounding a little harder now.

There's something I'm not saying. Something I'm scared to write down because if I do, it makes it real. And if it's real, I can't keep pretending. I can't keep pretending everything's fine. That I'm fine.

I stop, staring at those last few words. They hang there, heavy, like they're daring me to go deeper. My chest feels tight again, the same feeling I get right before a game. But this time, it's not excitement. It's fear. Jason's face flashes through my mind—the way he sits on the quad, sketching in that worn-out notebook of his, totally in his own world, comfortable in a way I've never been. It's not just his face, though. It's the pull I feel whenever I see him.