"Hey, tell me... was all this suffering I went through worth it? Did I save people, or did I only lose more?" In the distance, I saw myself with a painful smile lingering on my face. "You did what you could." A pause. A deep, unsteady breath. "And that... is more than I ever could have done." Somewhere else, perhaps shortly or a distant past— The blue glow of the laptop screen pulsed in the darkness.
Oliver slumped in his gaming chair, fingers still twitching from the last headshot he'd landed before reality came crashing back. 12:45 AM. A groan escaped his lips as he rubbed his burning eyes. Who needs a time machine when you've got ranked matches? Two hours of gaming magically transform into five.
Einstein was wrong - relativity's got nothing on League of Legends. His stomach growled like a displeased demon. The half-empty bag of Cool Ranch Doritos on his desk taunted him. As he stretched, his spine emitted a series of pops that would make a chiropractor wince. His gaze drifted to the closed door across the hall. Evie's probably passed out by now... I could totally draw a mustache on her with Sharpie. A wicked grin formed before common sense intervened. Not worth getting murdered by Mom at 1 AM. He faceplanted onto his bed, the familiar scent of unwashed sheets welcoming him home. His phone screen blazed to life, illuminating a cascade of ignored notifications.
[Group Chat: "The Eternal Benchwarmers"]
Max: So guys, since we’re all single AF, I know we’ve got nothing going on for our "spring youth"... except our assignments.Ben: Why do you have to remind us of that?!
Harry: Well, idk about you guys, but I might try asking out a girl this time.
Ben: No way. I bet 10 pounds you’re just going to wimp out again. Pretty sure this is the eighth time you’ve said this.
Max: Actually, I think it’s crossed over tenitec times. We should rename the group "Harry’s Hollow Promises."
Oliver: Let’s meet tomorrow for lunch and plan something. Or, y’know, just watch Harry fail again. P.S. New group name suggestion: "The Rom-Com Rejects."
Ben: "The Tinder Swindlers (But We Got Swindled)."
Harry: …I hate you all.
As his phone clattered onto the desk, then darkness calmed him…. "Wake up! Breakfast is ready!" A sharp elbow to my ribs jolted me awake. I groaned, pulling the blanket over my head. "Go away, Evie," I mumbled. My little sister yanked the covers off.
Mom said if you're not up in minutes, she's coming with the cold water. I squinted at her through sleep-crusted eyes.
Tell Mom I love her, but I also love not being waterboarded before noon." Evie rolled her eyes. "You're so lazy!" "Genius requires beauty sleep," I shot back, reaching out to grab her hair. She dodged with ease.
Then—chomp. Ow! You little gremlin! I hissed, cradling my now-teeth-marked hand as she bolted from the room laughing. My phone blinked accusingly from the nightstand. 9:37 AM. My stomach dropped. Scrambling for it, I thumbed open the group chat:
The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.
[Group Chat: "The Eternal Benchwarmers"]
Max [9:03 AM]: Car's packed. If you're not here by 10:30, we're leaving your arse behind.
Ben [9:05 AM]: Seconded. Also bring extra crisps because someone @Harry ate all the snacks last time.
Harry [9:07 AM]: That was ONE TIME—
"Shit." I became a tornado of motion—brushing teeth, pulling on jeans, nearly faceplanting over a discarded hoodie. The smell of coffee led me to the kitchen like a lifeline.
I shuffled into the kitchen, rubbing sleep from my eyes as the heavenly scent of coffee hit me like a divine intervention. Mom stood by the counter, already dressed for work, dark circles under her eyes that rivaled my own.
"You look terrible," I observed between gulps of nuclear-grade coffee that could resurrect the dead. She rubbed her temples. "Your father and I were up late sorting through the shop's new inventory." A tired smile cracked through as she pushed a plate of toast toward me.
"Mom," I said through a mouthful of buttered bread, "just letting you know in advance—I might be going somewhere with Ben and the others. Like a trip. Maybe. Still haven't thought of a plan yet." I took another life-saving sip. "So dropping Evie at school for a few days might be a problem. Mom didn't even look up from packing her bag.
Fine, don't worry. I'll drop her off while going to work. She paused, fixing me with The Look. But be careful. And don't let Max drive wherever you go. I nearly choked on my toast. No way! I'm not getting in the car if he's driving.
The guy treats speed limits like personal suggestions and roundabouts as existential crises. Mom smirked. "Smart boy." By the way, where's Evie? "She went to Liz’s house after you woke up," Mom said, arching a brow. You should learn from her. She wakes at 7 AM every day to help her poor, overworked mother with chores. I took a dramatic sip, holding my coffee like a sacred artifact. I could do that... but my artistic genius mind requires sleep for optimal creativity.
I sighed, placing a hand over my heart. Your son is a student of the RCA, you know. With merit. Mom rolled her eyes so hard I worried they'd get stuck. "Yes, yes, my son is a great artist," she deadpanned, reaching over to ruffle my bedhead. "Who still can't tell the difference between the laundry hamper and the floor."
"Because floors are the ultimate canvas!" I protested through a grin. As Mom left, she called over her shoulder: "Just promise me you won't end up in a ditch because Max 'got confused' between the brake and gas again." "Love you too!" I shouted back, already mentally packing my sketchbook for whatever disaster awaited.
I shoved the last bite of toast in my mouth and got up, scraping my plate into the bin with the practiced efficiency of someone who'd been scolded about crumbs one too many times. The mug got a half-hearted rinse - good enough - before I turned to leave. Then it hit me. Bloody hell. The crisps. I checked my watch. 10:20 AM. A snorted laugh escaped me. Like those idiots will be ready before noon anyway.
Might as well swing by Dad's shop first. Our place was one of those classic London conversions - shop on the ground floor, a living space stacked above it like a layer cake of questionable life choices. The stairs groaned their usual complaints as I descended into The Vintage Emporium, its gold leaf lettering peeling just enough to look properly antique on Regent Street.
Outside, the familiar symphony of honking black cabs and overpriced tourist traps played on. The shop smelled like home - that particular blend of old paper and the of a thousand cigarettes smoked by long-dead collectors. Dad was behind the counter, doing his best impression of a serious antiquarian while some American tourist hemmed and hawed over what was clearly a fake Victorian snuff box.
I caught his eye and got The Look - the universal dad signal for "don't you dare interrupt this sale." Wandering past a particularly precarious stack of vintage Playboys (1972, mint condition, not that I'd checked), something glinted from the display case. A necklace - crescent moon pendant, the metal shifting between silver and something darker when the light hit it just right. Well that's not sketchy at all.
