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The Space Between Bruises

  Hamari’s POV

  The locker room was too quiet.

  Hamari sat on the bench, his jersey damp with sweat and shame. Elijah was changing beside him, silent. Liam was still arguing outside with someone—maybe the ref, maybe himself. The rest of the team was scattered, avoiding eye contact like his injury was contagious.

  The silence wasn’t just about the loss.

  It was about him.

  Coach Rivera crouched in front of him, eye level. Calm voice. Serious eyes.

  “Let’s get a scan, Hamari. No more pushing through.”

  Hamari didn’t answer.

  Coach sighed, placing a hand on his good shoulder. “You’re more than just your body, son. But you’ve got to protect it.”

  That word—more—hit him wrong.

  More than his body?

  Then why did everyone only look at him when it was working?

  What was he now?

  He waited until the others filtered out. Most didn’t say much. A few clapped his knee. One guy muttered “Tough break” without meeting his eyes.

  Malik stayed behind.

  He didn’t speak, just sat on the bench across from him. The silence between them stretched. Tight. Familiar. Heavy.

  “I didn’t mean for you to hear that,” Malik said eventually.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  Hamari didn’t move. “You meant it, though.”

  Malik rubbed a hand over his face. “Yeah,” he admitted. “I did.”

  There was no comfort in honesty. Just confirmation.

  He left without saying goodbye.

  Elijah was the last one left.

  He grabbed his bag and paused at the door, then looked back. “You don’t owe anyone toughness tonight,” he said quietly. “Just breathe, bro.”

  Hamari didn’t respond, but his shoulders dipped—just slightly. Not relief. Not surrender. Just acknowledgment.

  Elijah nodded once and left without waiting.

  Hamari stayed a few minutes longer, then got up. The gym echoed behind him as he walked out through the side exit, hoodie thrown over his head. His shoulder throbbed with each movement, the wrap barely holding the pain in place.

  The street buzzed with post-game noise — cars passing, laughter echoing, music playing somewhere too loud. Celebration from the other team spilled onto the sidewalk, and someone shouted “Let’s gooo!” like it was just another Friday night.

  He walked past it all.

  No destination. No purpose. Just movement.

  He needed space. To breathe without being asked questions.

  To hurt without being observed.

  The night air cooled the sweat on his back. His breath fogged in front of him, and the tightness in his chest wasn’t just physical anymore. It was the weight of being expected to bounce back. The weight of not knowing if he could.

  He crossed an empty parking lot. The overhead lights buzzed. His footsteps echoed on the pavement. It was the kind of quiet that made you notice your own breathing — made you feel alone even in a city that never really sleeps.

  That’s when he saw her.

  Leaning gently against a low brick wall, ankles crossed, posture relaxed but unmistakably poised. She wasn’t fidgeting. She wasn’t scrolling her phone. She was just… there.

  She wore a soft, fitted dress — something simple, but elegant. The kind of thing that whispered presence instead of screaming for it. Wind tugged lightly at the hem, brushing it against her legs. And for a second, it looked like time paused around her.

  She wasn’t waiting for him — he could tell from the flicker of surprise in her eyes when they locked.

  But she didn’t look away.

  Eliana.

  Or… Lina. He still didn’t know which one was her real name.

  She straightened a little, barely. Her eyes flicked to his shoulder, then back to his face. Like she was about to speak but wasn’t sure if she had the right.

  For a heartbeat, he thought she might say something comforting. Something quiet. Something he didn’t know how to carry.

  But she stayed silent.

  And for the first time that night, Hamari didn’t feel watched.

  He felt seen.

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