September 21, 2014 - Prison

After that game, something in me flipped.

No more lazy clicking, no more half-assing rounds. I farmed like my soul was on probation. Every last hit felt personal. Every win felt like proof I wasn’t the same idiot who’d thrown the last one.

We stomped June’s team so many times they stopped trash-talking altogether. The café owner started greeting us with a grin. Mike fist-bumped me like I’d just won a tournament.

And still, after every match, my eyes drifted to Jackie-hoping maybe this time she’d look back.

She never did.

She’d laugh at something June said instead.

And that laugh alone was enough to remind me that no matter how hard I tried to change, I was still me-and my brain never let me forget it.

Back in class, Jackie was sketching again. Her pencil glided across the paper in slow, sure strokes that made the rest of the room feel too loud. I rested my chin on my hand, pretending to nap while my half-lidded eyes followed her hand. Each stroke left a whisper softer than breathing.

Then, movement-June.

The human metronome of bad timing, strolling in with drumsticks poking from his back pocket and confidence he hadn’t earned.

“Cool drawing!” he said, grinning like he’d just invented compliments.

Jackie looked up, surprised, then smiled. “Thanks.”

“Is that Kuroko?”

“Yeah.”

“I love that manga,” he said, leaning closer.

The words hit harder than I expected. I’d only recently started reading it myself-not because of her, but because I liked how quiet stories could still hit hard. Okay, maybe a little because of her. But hearing it come out of his mouth felt like plagiarism.

They started talking, voices overlapping easily, like they’d rehearsed it. Her pencil stopped moving.

My hands curled under the desk. The chair creaked.

Honestly, I was pretty angry... no... Livid. That was the more accurate word.

I pictured myself standing up and sweet-chin-musicing his scrawny ass straight into next week - a fantasy cut short when Jackie laughed.

Not the polite kind she gave teachers. The real one. The full, head-tilting, eyes-crinkling kind that made everything else fade.

My anger folded in on itself. I stared at my scratched-up desk, hearing that laugh repeat in my head like background music I couldn’t turn off.

“The J-Connection,” Mike said during lunch with the guys, nodding toward the two of them. “Jackie and June. You’re doomed, man.”

Then he laughed - loud, hyena-loud - while I stirred my noodles until they turned into beige soup.

At first, June only stopped by her desk during breaks. He’d lean against it, casual, like he belonged there. From behind, I caught every small thing Jackie did: the tilt of her head when she concentrated, the tiny frown when a line didn’t land right, the way her hair slid forward when she looked down.

Those details used to feel like mine. My secret, harmless obsession. My quiet way of caring.

Now they were just part of someone else’s conversation.

If I looked too long, my chest tightened.
If I looked away, I felt like I’d surrendered.

That stupid dream I had-stealing one of her sketches, keeping it folded on my desk forever-didn’t even feel sweet anymore. It felt like trying to hold smoke.

Then came the phones.

A faint buzz from Jackie’s desk.

She looked down. Small smile. Thumb flying.

A second later-buzz from the far left.

June.

Same smile. Same rhythm.

Buzz.
Smile.
Glance.
Laugh.

It became the new rhythm of the day.

Sometimes she’d cover her mouth when she giggled, trying to hide it. Somehow, that was worse. It meant the moment was private. Theirs.

Every vibration of her phone was another quiet tap against my ribs.

By dismissal, I was drained-not from schoolwork, but from pretending not to notice.

One break, Jackie pulled out her sketchbook again. Pencil poised. For once, the room felt calm. Maybe June would stay put this time-

Then I glanced up. There he was. Same smug smirk, same drumsticks, same laser focus on her.

“For fu- for freaking sake,” I muttered, louder than I meant.

Jackie turned. “What was that?”

I froze. “Nothing.”

“You’re a bad liar, Al.”

“Yeah, well, you know,” I said, half-grinning, “I like watching you draw.”

“Some truth from mysterious little Allen? Wow.” Her voice softened, amused. She smiled, that small, sideways kind that knocked the air out of me.

I smiled back, heart pounding. I actually had something to say this time-

“What’s up, guys?”

June slid into the moment like a stage cue.

The breath I’d just gathered left me instead. I turned toward Kevin beside me like he was my emergency exit.

“That’s wrong,” I said, pointing at his homework.

Kevin blinked. “No, it’s not.”

“It’s hella wrong. Give it here.”

He handed it over. I fixed it, whispering equations just loud enough to drown out their voices.

It hit me somewhere between x and y that the first time I’d talked to Jackie without overthinking was seconds before he showed up.

I bit the inside of my cheek. The taste of iron followed.

After-school scrims didn’t fix anything. They made it worse.

I picked early-game heroes and tore through matches like a man possessed. Our strategy dissolved. We just attacked.

Kyle called it aggression meta.
Mike called it therapy.
I called it survival.

If I couldn’t control my life, I’d at least control the map.

But control’s a joke.

Every night ended the same: June packing up beside Jackie, the two of them walking off together, their laughter trailing behind like the outro of a song I wasn’t part of.

Kyle and Mike would chatter beside me, but their voices faded into static. I could still hear her laugh-bright, distant, and echoing somewhere behind my ribs.

I smiled when they did. Pretended it didn’t sting. Pretended it didn’t matter.

But it did.

I told myself it wasn’t hopeless. Not yet.

Because as long as she wasn’t his, I still had a reason to show up.

Even if all I could do was watch.