Jack
7th April
I slid into the chair beside her, keeping my voice low so the others wouldn't notice. "Did you see the petals just now? They're kind of fighting the wind," I said, nodding toward the window. She laughed, a light, airy sound that made the corners of my chest tighten a little. "They're stubborn, like me," she said. I grinned. "Yeah, that sounds about right. But stubborn in a good way, I'd say."
I leaned against the desk, watching her scribble notes. "You're going to end up erasing half the paper again," I teased, my pencil tapping against the desk. She glanced up, a small grin on her face. "And you're going to make me feel bad about it?" I shook my head. "No, just keeping you on your toes. You know I like seeing you think." She rolled her eyes, but her smile didn't fade.
"Seriously, Jack," she said, nudging me lightly, "you always make it sound like everything's easy. How do you even focus with everyone around?" I shrugged, leaning back. "Focus is practice… and a little natural talent," I said, smirking. "Besides, if you're paying attention to me, you're going to miss half the lecture anyway." She laughed, shaking her head, and I felt that little spark of amusement between us, the one that made the day feel lighter before it had even started.
The rest of the day passed in the same rhythm. Lectures, quick chats, notes passed under desks, small laughter spilling over in corners of the room. We debated homework answers, whispered about the upcoming sports festival, and tried to figure out who would get which numbers for the football matches. Each break brought a chance to tease each other. By the time the last bell rang, signaling the end of the school day, the day wrapped in the simple familiarity of her presence. We walked to the school exit, waving goodbye with the same small smiles that had carried us through the day. "See you tomorrow, Jack," she called. I waved back, a grin tugging at my face. "See you, Casey." And with that, the ordinary day ended—but I was already thinking about the sports week waiting for me.
We stayed back after classes for almost an hour, sitting in the empty classroom with sunlight slanting through the windows, dust floating lazily in the air. The sports festival was coming up, and the teachers had dumped most of the planning on us.
Richard leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. "So jerseys—black and silver or black and red?"
"Silver looks sick," Neil said, tapping his pen against the desk. "Red's too predictable."
I shrugged. "Black and silver sounds clean. Minimal."
Adrian scoffed. "You just like anything that looks intimidating."
"Works on the field," I shot back, grinning.
We argued about fonts and styles.
Richard spun the whiteboard marker between his fingers and started scribbling names.
"Alright," he said, stepping back. "Let's settle numbers before this turns into chaos."
"Eight," Adrian said immediately. "Non-negotiable."
Neil snorted. "You just like it because it looks aggressive."
"It is aggressive," Adrian shot back.
Richard wrote it down anyway. "Adrian—8. Fine. Neil?"
"Eighteen," Neil replied.
I didn't even look up from his phone. "Four."
Richard paused. "You sure?"
"Yeah," I said. "I like it."
Richard nodded and wrote it in. "Four it is."
"And me?" he added with a grin.
"Fourteen," Neil said. "Obviously."
Someone from the back muttered, "What about the rest of us?"
Richard laughed. "Relax. We've got twenty-five, fifty-four, seventy-five—"
"Who the hell takes a hundred?" Adrian asked.
A guy near the door raised his hand. "Already claimed."
The room erupted in groans.
Neil dropped into a chair beside Jack. "Imagine getting bodied by someone wearing 100."
Jack smirked. "Psychological warfare."
"Okay, but where's this even happening?" Adrian asked, leaning against the desk.
"Rumor says the city stadium," someone said.
"No way," Neil replied. "That's too big for a school fest."
"My cousin said they're booking Silvercrest Arena," Richard added.
Jack looked up. "That place seats, like, twenty thousand."
"Exactly," Adrian said. "Imagine playing under those lights."
Another voice cut in, excited. "I heard it's still undecided. Could be the school ground—but the final match might be shifted."
"And there's a closing function," Neil added. "Music, lights, speeches—the whole thing."
Adrian groaned. "If they make me sit through speeches after running, I'm leaving."
Jack laughed. "You won't. You'll stay."
"For the jerseys," Adrian admitted.
They all laughed again.
"The sports week will last about a week before the school festival," another added.
Everyone cheered, loud and careless, the kind of laughter that fills empty classrooms and makes them feel alive.
Outside, the sun dipped lower. No one noticed how close the day was to breaking.
By the time we left, the school building had gone quieter. The corridors echoed faintly as we walked out, shoes scuffing against the floor. Outside, the evening air was warmer, the sky beginning to soften into that pale orange-blue that only lasts a few minutes.
At the school exit, Adrian peeled off to the right, lifting a hand in a lazy wave.
"See you idiots tomorrow."
"Try not to trip over your own ego," Richard called after him.
He flipped us off and disappeared down his street.
The rest of us—me, Richard, and Neil—turned left, following the pavement that ran alongside the main road. Traffic hummed constantly to our right, engines rising and falling, horns cutting through the air now and then. This stretch was always busy, especially around this time.
We walked together for a while, talking about nothing important. Richard was in a hurry, something about his parents, so when we reached the smaller street branching off, he checked his phone and sighed.
"I gotta go," he said. "Don't wait up."
He left us there, turning into the quieter road.
Neil and I continued for another ten minutes. The crowd thinned the farther we went. When we reached his turn, he slowed, adjusting the strap of his bag.
"Tomorrow," he said.
"Tomorrow," I echoed.
He left, and suddenly I was alone.
I kept walking, the main road still running parallel to me on my right. Cars sped past, tires hissing against asphalt. Ahead, the zebra crossing cut vertically across the road where the T-junction met, white lines stark against the dark surface.
That's when I noticed them. An elderly woman stood near the crossing, leaning lightly on a wooden walking stick. Beside her was a small child, maybe around ten, clutching her sleeve, eyes fixed on the traffic like he was trying to memorize its rhythm.
I slowed without realizing it.
"Busy today," I said, stopping a short distance away.
The woman smiled, lines folding gently around her eyes. "Always is," she replied. "Feels louder every year."
The boy looked up at me. "Grandma says cars don't listen anymore."
I huffed a quiet laugh. "They never really did."
The pedestrian signal was red. Cars surged past in both directions along the main road, a constant, impatient stream.
"I can help you cross when it turns," I offered. "If you want."
She shook her head kindly. "That's sweet, but we'll be alright."
The boy nodded quickly. "I can watch. I'm good at watching."
I hesitated. Something tugged at me, but the signal hadn't changed yet. I checked my phone. I was already running late; I still had to stop by the market.
"Alright," I said. "Be careful, okay?"
The light changed.
I stepped onto the zebra crossing, moving forward, eyes automatically checking both sides. I was halfway across when it happened.
A sharp sound—tires screeching.
Someone shouted.
I turned.
An SUV came out of nowhere, fast, wrong, cutting through the space where the road should have been empty. The impact was loud and dull all at once, a sound I didn't recognize at first as a body hitting metal.
The woman went down.
Time fractured.
The world seemed to mute itself—no traffic, no voices—just the image of her falling, the stick clattering away, the child screaming her name.
I couldn't move.
My feet were glued to the ground, breath locked somewhere in my chest. My mouth opened, but no sound came out. I watched people rush forward as if through thick glass.
Someone yelled for an ambulance.
The SUV didn't stop. It vanished into traffic like nothing had happened.
I don't remember crossing the rest of the road. I only remember being on my knees, hands shaking as I hovered uselessly near her. Blood spread darkly across the pavement, staining my white shirt, my maroon coat.
"She's bleeding badly," someone said.
"Don't move her!"
The child was crying—raw, broken sounds that tore straight through me.
The ambulance arrived faster than I expected. Paramedics moved with practiced urgency, voices sharp and clipped.
"Seventy-five, female—possible head trauma."
"Pulse is weak."
"BP's dropping."
I stood there, numb, listening.
"Open fracture on the left leg."
"Internal bleeding suspected."
"She's unresponsive, GCS is low."
Words blurred together, heavy and unreal. Internal bleeding. Unresponsive. Low blood pressure. Hypovolemic shock.
One of the paramedics glanced at me. "Did you see what happened?"
I nodded, or maybe I didn't. My throat wouldn't work.
At the hospital, the lights were too bright.
I stood outside the emergency entrance, clothes soaked, hands sticky with dried blood. The child sat nearby, wrapped in a blanket, eyes empty, fixed on the automatic doors.
Doctors rushed past.
"She's critical."
"Prepare for emergency surgery."
"Multiple traumas."
That was when it hit me.
If I had helped her cross.
If I hadn't hesitated.
If I hadn't walked away.
I had promised myself once—to always help, to never look away, to be someone who made things better.
And I hadn't.
I stood there, staring at the hospital doors, unable to breathe properly, the weight of it pressing down until everything inside me felt cracked.
The day had started like any other. It was supposed to be a normal day.
And by the time it ended, nothing about me was the same.
I never thought that day would split my life into a before and an after.