Back to Joey

Joey’s day had slid into idle time after the test packet left his hands. Finals meant half periods and too much hallway, a cafeteria that felt like an airport at midnight. He and Nate drifted with everyone else toward food that didn’t deserve the name.

“Cardboard or rubber?” Nate asked, staring at the pizza choices like they might blink first.

Joey shrugged, more on autopilot than conviction. “Apparently today it’s actually decent.”

They grabbed trays and traded half-assed optimistic glances. Joey bit into a slice, then blinked. It wasn’t gourmet, but it wasn’t the usual regret in dough form, either. The grease pooled exactly where it should, and the tomato sauce carried a tang deeper than the usual red paint. Nate watched him.

“You shaking off the hangover yet?” Nate asked, a half-smile tugging at his lips.

“Yeah,” Joey said, shrugging shoulders that felt permanent in their slump. “Nothing like a history final you barely studied for to bring you back to reality.”

When the bell finally released them later that afternoon, his backpack felt like like his head; heavy and sluggish but he was happy with getting through his first final, and actually not to unhappy with what he had produced.

He caught the bus home, wedging earbuds deep into his ears so the world would shrink to the rubber tires humming over asphalt and the low throb of his carefully curated playlist. Each stop was a small mercy until the bus hissed open at his street. He hopped off, scanning the empty driveway. Mom’s car was gone, which left just him and Emma holding down the fort for the next few hours.

He dragged his backpack up the front steps, dropped it at the bottom, then swung open the fridge door and grabbed a cold can of Coke. The satisfying hiss of carbonation was momentarily more exhilarating than any grade. He retreated to his room, flicked on the TV, and let the PS5 controller rest in his hands like a lifeline. This was his reward for surviving finals day: a blockade of time to slaughter zombies, headshot by headshot, to escape the weariness of reality and let his brain go numb.

The game launched and Joey sank in immediately—until a sudden irritation launched him back into awareness. His controller’s analog stick drifted sideways, sending making him miss to the left for every god damn shot. He paused, muttering, jiggled the stick like it would fix anything and then slammed the controller onto his knee hard.

Somewhere in that pixelated apocalypse, he heard the familiar click of keys in the front door. He muted the game and listened. Steps on the hallway carpet. Quick breathing. It was Emma, just back from her after-school run, making himself aware that maybe he should’ve gone too, sweat out some of the residual tequila.

He waited for her to stomp up the stairs and vanish, like always. But silence stretched. After a minute, he heard water run in the downstairs bathroom, and then the fan kick in. He climbed back into his make-believe world. Yet every zombie kill felt hollow with that distant hum of running water echoing in his skull. The minutes dragged on, and on. The shower went quiet. Then came a soft creak as her bedroom door opened somewhere down the hall.

He stopped to think, thumbs resting on the controller, wasn’t that a really long shower? What was she doing? The images flashing on the inside of eyelids was not something he was proud off. It was his twin sister for fucks sake. He tried to return to the game—lining up a headshot on a zombie sniper, but his concentration snapped every time he thought of Emma behind that closed door.

Before he knew it, the front door opened again and the soft thump of grocery bags landing on the kitchen counter echoed through the house. His mom’s voice drifted in a cheerful relief. “Hey, come help with dinner!”

Joey exhaled, turned off the game, and **** himself back into reality: dishes, casual chatter about finals and the news, Emma’s quiet presence at the table. Everything seemed normal on the surface. Yet under the steady hum of the refrigerator, beneath the scrape of cutlery against plates, there pulsed an unshakable itch—an unresolved tension that nobody was talking about, but both Joey and Emma could feel.

-- Author note:
Hey all! Quite a few reading through this. Bored at work, so decided to write this one out. Don't really know where I'm going with this. Suggestions and feedback are welcome in comments or in a DM!
Cheers