Jason reclines in the chair, controller warm on his chest. The phone glows. Faces scroll. Wins. Launches. Smiles.
A childhood name appears - EVAN HOLT - now framed by medals and captions.
"Wow. Congrats," Jason mutters.
He lets off a deep sigh.
"My time will come. Soon." The words feel practiced, light as excuses he's repeated too often, arranging themselves between him and the truth.
Caleb texts, "Queue?"
"Later," Jason replies.
"Always later," Caleb shoots back.
"Relax," Jason says. "I'm fine."
He keeps scrolling. Marcus posts a podium photo. "Calculated," Jason snorts, thumb already moving.
Clara's profile lights up on the screen. Soft brown skin glows beneath the display's pale sheen, her expressive dark eyes steady and unreadable in the photo. Long black hair frames her face, her posture graceful even in stillness.
Jason types, Busy? Deletes it. He exhales, barely audible. "Soon," he whispers instead, his thumb hovering, suspended between doubt and desire.
Mail sits stacked by the desk, cream envelopes stamped with the school crest. "Not tonight," he says. "I earned rest." The controller rises with his breath, falls again.
The phone buzzes.
"Still up?" Lucas asks.
"Yeah."
"Come by tomorrow."
"We'll see."
Jason's gaze slides back to the envelopes, the paper edges flashing faintly as his shoulders tense. His excuses quiet. The chair creaks, answering for him. He swallows hard, throat tightening, breath slowing as the room settles into the specific weight of things he is not yet ready to open.
He waits. The hallway beyond the door stays silent.
Samuel passes the doorway earlier than Jason remembers. Bare feet. Pajama cuffs. No pause. No sound. Just eyes wide, curious, steady. Jason lifts the controller. "Hey," he says. Samuel keeps walking.
"Sam?" Jason calls.
Silence. A door closes soft.
Later, the quiet presses harder. Jason rubs his palms together. "He didn't mean anything," he tells the desk. The fan clicks. "Kids stare."
Caleb texts, "You dipped."
"Power flicker," Jason lies.
"Again?"
"Chill."
He stands, peers into the hall. Light spills from the bathroom night-lamp. "You good?" Jason asks, louder. No answer. Pipes knock back.
Jason smirks, then shrugs.
He remembers Samuel's look, no blame, no worry, just watching. The memory sits with him longer than it should.
A silence opens in the room. He can't remember when he last tried to make any of it make sense out loud. He opens his mouth. Closes it. Tries again.
"I've been talking to myself," he says. The sentence lands differently than he expected.
He realises he has been rehearsing explanations for years and hasn't delivered one to anyone who matters.
Margaret's voice drifts from her room. "Jason?"
"I'm fine," he answers.
"Okay," she says, softer.
The chair sighs as he sits. The room holds him there, quiet and patient, the way rooms hold people who are not yet ready to move.
Jason lies on his bed, scrolling endlessly.
Forums stack like rooms with open doors. "Build habits," one post says. "Ten steps," another promises.
"Real easy," Jason murmurs. "No stakes."
A gaming thread pings. Daniel jokes, "Touch grass."
"Soon," Jason types.
Marcus replies elsewhere, crisp and calm. "Optimize inputs."
"Just play," Jason replies. "Stop overthinking it."
Names surface without asking, Evan Holt stacking awards and internships, his face everywhere. Naomi Vale collecting honors, applause following her from stage to stage. Rebecca Holt moving cleanly into leadership roles, polished, announced, already placed.
"Good for them," Jason says. His thumb keeps scrolling. The screen's blue glow stings his eyes. Outside, wind ticks the window frame. Dust floats through the light, unhurried, as if it has all the time he doesn't.
He clicks philosophy. "Meaning is chosen," a motivational caption declares.
"Chosen how?" Jason asks the ceiling.
The ceiling offers nothing.
Productivity boards blur. "Consistency," someone chants.
"Consistency," Jason echoes, softer.
His phone beeps. Battery low. He sets it face-down and turns to the desktop.
Screen-light reflects on his brown skin.
A notification slips through, an old username, half-broken. The page stutters, reloads, then holds.
"That shouldn't work," Jason says.
The thread is scarred, formatting torn, comments dated years apart. "Fake," he whispers, leaning closer.
A single line sits untouched at the top.
Don't play if you want comfort.
Jason exhales. "Intriguing."
He scrolls. The page resists, then opens deeper. His room seems to lean with him.
The cursor stops blinking.