The days that followed slipped into a tense rhythm.
Micheal became a constant.
Not in ways that drew attention—never hovering, never demanding—but in ways that filled gaps before anyone else could. When Teema arrived early, he was already there. When she stayed late, he lingered nearby, busy with something that justified his presence. When Daniel was absent, Micheal didn't replace him. He absorbed the space.
Teema noticed. Of course she did.
"You don't have to walk me every time," she said one afternoon as they left the library.
"I'm not," Micheal replied. "I'm just heading the same way."
She stopped walking. "That's not true."
He turned back to her, calm as ever. "Does it bother you?"
She opened her mouth, then hesitated. "I don't know."
The answer again.
Micheal nodded once. "Then tell me when it does."
They continued walking, neither satisfied.
Daniel, meanwhile, grew sharper around the edges. He laughed less. Asked more questions. Checked his phone more often when Teema wasn't beside him. When Micheal caught his eye in the hallway, Daniel didn't look away anymore.
He held the stare.
The tension finally snapped during group practice on the field.
Micheal had stayed behind after drills, sitting on the bleachers, lacing his boots slowly. Teema stood near the fence, waiting—alone.
Daniel approached her, voice low but urgent. Micheal didn't hear the words, only saw the gestures. The way Teema crossed her arms. The way Daniel's shoulders stiffened.
Then Teema walked away.
Straight toward Micheal.
"You okay?" Micheal asked as she reached him.
She shook her head, eyes bright with frustration. "I can't do this today."
"Want to talk?" he asked.
"Not really," she said. "I just don't want to be alone."
That was all it took.
They sat together, the space between them closing naturally, familiarly. Micheal didn't touch her. Didn't have to.
From the field, Daniel watched.
Later that night, Daniel called Micheal.
"Are you enjoying this?" Daniel asked without greeting.
Micheal closed his eyes briefly. "Enjoying what?"
"Watching her drift," Daniel said. "Because of you."
"Because of uncertainty," Micheal corrected. "You don't get to blame me for that."
"You're feeding it," Daniel snapped.
Micheal's voice stayed level. "I'm not the one pretending nothing's wrong."
There was silence on the line, thick and strained.
"You're not a bad person," Daniel said finally. "But you're not innocent either."
Micheal didn't deny it.
When the call ended, he sat in the dark, phone still pressed to his ear. His heart wasn't racing. His hands weren't shaking.
That scared him more than anything else.
The next day, Teema skipped class and sat on the school steps instead. Micheal found her there, knees drawn to her chest.
"I feel like I'm disappointing everyone," she said quietly.
"You're allowed to disappoint people," Micheal replied. "You're not allowed to disappear for them."
She looked up at him. "You always say things like that."
"Because I believe them."
She searched his face. "Do you ever get tired of being the one who understands?"
"Yes," he said.
The honesty surprised her.
"But I'm more tired of pretending I don't care," he added.
Her breath caught. "Micheal—"
"I'm not asking you for anything," he said quickly. "I just don't want to lie anymore."
She looked away, torn. "I don't know what I want."
"I know," Micheal said. "But I know what I want."
The words hung between them—clear, unmistakable, finally spoken without confession or restraint.
Teema stood abruptly. "I need time."
She left before he could respond.
Micheal stayed where he was, watching her disappear down the steps.
Something inside him twisted—not regret, not fear—but awareness.
He had stopped orbiting her uncertainty.
He was pulling on it now.
And whether it ended with her choosing him or pushing him away completely, Micheal understood one thing with sharp clarity:
There was no going back to who he'd been before.
-----
That evening, Micheal skipped practice for the first time all season.
He sat alone on the edge of the football field long after the lights came on, the grass damp beneath his palms. The shouts of teammates echoed faintly from the locker rooms, distant and unreal. For once, he didn't feel guilty about being absent. Everything that used to anchor him—routine, loyalty, restraint—had loosened its grip.
Teema didn't text.
Daniel didn't either.
The silence felt deliberate, like a line drawn in chalk.
Micheal leaned back, staring up at the floodlights until they blurred. He replayed the day over and over—not for what he'd said, but for what he hadn't stopped himself from meaning. He had always told himself that wanting her quietly made him decent. That patience made him good.
Now he understood how fragile that lie had been.
He wasn't proud of what he was becoming—but he wasn't sorry either.
Because beneath the restraint, beneath the years of doing the right thing, was a simple truth he could no longer ignore:
He loved her enough to break things.
Enough to risk being the villain in someone else's story.
Enough to cross lines he'd once sworn he never would.
As the lights finally shut off and darkness swallowed the field, Micheal stood and walked away—steady, resolved, and fully aware that whatever came next would cost him something.
And for the first time, he was ready to pay.
----