The winter holidays had finally arrived.
It felt like I'd been crawling toward this break forever, like each school day had dragged its nails through my skin just to remind me I was still there. Still visible. Still vulnerable.
But now… the silence had returned. No more jeers in the hallway, no more side-eyed pity stares from teachers who never did anything. No more Aaron breathing down my neck, daring me to exist in the same space as him.
Just me. Myself. And the forge.
The sharp clang of hammer meeting steel echoed through the garage, followed by a hiss of steam and the sizzle of hot metal reacting to cold air. Sparks sprayed upward, flickering across the blackened walls, a few bouncing harmlessly against the mesh of my face guard. I didn't flinch anymore. This place, the garage...
It was my sanctuary.
The rhythmic beat of metal shaping under my hand was steadier than any heartbeat.
Today's project was more than just a distraction. It was a challenge. A solution. A rebellion. I was trying to craft a new support brace for my leg, something stronger, custom-built to fit me so I wouldn't have to rely on the damn cane forever.
Not some mass-produced, one-size-fits-most piece of crap.
Something real.
Something mine.
Through the narrow, fogged glass slit of my face shield, I saw movement near the entrance. The garage door groaned open, letting in a gust of cold air and a slice of afternoon light. I straightened up instinctively, breath fogging the inside of the guard.
Uncle Darryl stood in the doorway, one gloved hand still on the rolling door chain.
"You've got a visitor," he said, his voice carrying over the steady creak of cooling metal.
He stepped aside, and there she was,Phoebe.
She stood just outside the door, hugging herself, her fingers twitching nervously at the sleeves of her coat. My stomach did something weird, twisting and tightening like I'd swallowed a bolt. For a second, I just froze, heart suddenly pounding harder than the forge hammer ever could.
I yanked off the face guard and set it down, the grease on my fingers smudging the glass. "What's up?" I asked as casually as I could, leaning on my cane as I wiped my face with the least dirty rag I could find.
"She said she just wanted to talk," Darryl muttered under his breath, then gave me a brief look before backing out of the garage. "I'll give you two some space."
And then we were alone.
"Hey, Vick…" Phoebe said softly, stepping just inside, her eyes flicking across the room like she wasn't sure what she'd expected. "Looks like the place hasn't changed much."
I watched her as she moved to sit down on the wooden chair in the corner, the one I'd built last year at school with uneven legs and a burn mark from where I'd dropped a piece of hot tin. I'm better with metal then wood it seems.
She lowered herself into it carefully, as if she didn't want to break something.
"It hasn't," I replied after a moment, turning back toward my workbench to hide the fact that my face was probably still red. I adjusted the metal brace I'd been working on, pretending to be focused, even though her presence was like a static hum in my brain.
I hesitated, then added without looking at her, "Why are you here?"
She didn't answer right away, and I could feel her watching me. That familiar, unreadable look. It made my skin itch.
"If you're here to apologize for Aaron," I said sharply, the words coming out faster than I meant, "you can save it. I don't want it."
I adjusted my grip on the cane, keeping my back to her. My voice didn't shake, but my knuckles were lighter against the metal.
Because the truth was… I didn't know what I wanted her to say. Part of me had dreamed about her showing up like this, just the two of us, without him.
But another part, the one still bruised from the hallway stares and shoved shoulders, had already started building walls the second she stepped in.
I waited for her to speak.
After a bit, she broke the silence.
"No," she said, her voice quiet but clear. "I wanted to apologize… and also… we haven't really talked much since Aaron and I… got together."
The words landed with a dull thud in my chest.
I let out a sharp sigh and slowly turned on my good heel, facing her fully now, arms hanging at my sides.
"Yeah," I muttered. "Because I'm gonna be honest with you, he's a fucking asshole."
She flinched slightly, eyes dropping to the concrete floor as if the words physically hit her. Her strawberry-blonde hair fell forward, hiding her face from view. I almost regretted how blunt I was… almost.
"And why would you date somebody like him?" I pressed, the bitterness bubbling up before I could stop it. "Seriously, Phoebe. He's a dumbass. You left me, for that dumbass."
"I know…" she said softly, still not meeting my eyes. "But just remember, we were only together for a few months."
"Yeah," I snapped, folding my arms tightly across my chest. "Still a good few months."
There was a beat of silence. Her fingers fidgeted in her sleeves, her body small in his oversized hoodie. I could see she didn't know what to say, but I wasn't done... not yet.
"What, did you come here to remind me of everything else that's broken in my life too?" I asked, louder now. "My leg? My limp? The fact that I'm not-"
"Victor," she interrupted gently, stepping forward, her voice suddenly firm but kind. "Just stop for a second. And breathe."
She reached out and placed her hand on my wrist, gently, like she was afraid I'd pull away. I didn't. Not yet. Her eyes found mine, and for a second, everything went still. Just her hand on mine, her eyes soft, and that stupid ache behind my ribs threatening to crack open.
I sighed again and looked away, jaw tight. "You know he's not good enough for you," I murmured, barely above a whisper. "You know that."
"I know," she said again. Then added, quietly, "I know I'm a bitch for what I did. I won't pretend I'm not. But… we lost that spark, Victor. We drifted."
She paused, and I felt her watching me closely.
"We went different ways. And I wanted to apologize because… I can see it's hurting you. I can see it's still sitting in your chest like something heavy. And I don't want that for you."
My throat felt tight.
"I want you to get better," she continued, her voice starting to crack. "Because I know all this, everything with Aaron, with school, with… with me... it's making you worse. More withdrawn. More-"
"Sick?" I cut in bitterly, pulling my wrist out of her grasp. "Yeah. I know."
The room went cold again. Or maybe it was just me.
I turned my back on her and limped back to the workbench, gripping the edge hard enough to make my knuckles turn white. I couldn't look at her, not when everything felt like it was caving in from the inside.
"Just… go home, Phoebe," I said, voice low. "This was a waste of time."
There was a pause. Nothing but the quiet hum of the forge cooling behind me.
Then I heard it, a soft, almost silent sniffle. The kind someone tries to hide. Followed by footsteps retreating slowly across the concrete. A moment later, the garage door creaked shut behind her with a dull metallic slam.
And then… silence.
Just me. Myself. And the cold.
I stared down at the piece of metal I'd been working on earlier, its surface dull now, heat long gone. I clenched my eyes shut, hard, like that might stop the sting rising behind them. But it didn't.
I pressed the heel of my palm against my face, jaw clenched, breath shaky.
I didn't cry. Not really. But I came damn close.
~~~
I stared at my frail, naked body in the bathroom mirror.
Even now, I couldn't look too long. My reflection was like a ghost in brown skin, thin, angular, stretched taut over a frame that always felt like it never fully formed. My chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, ribs visible beneath the skin like the bars of a birdcage.
I turned slightly, watching the way my left leg lagged behind, bony and tight, crisscrossed with pale, faint scars that trailed upward like vines. Markers of surgeries, muscle spasms, falls I didn't land right. Things I didn't ask for.
The doctors called it "mild cerebral palsy."
Like that word mild was meant to be a comfort. Like it made it easier. Like it excused the effort it took to climb stairs, to run, to just breathe when winter rolled around and my lungs locked up.
Most of my family were built like brick walls, thick arms, broad shoulders, proud postures. Big voices. Big presences. The kind of people who were always told they were "strong," sometimes even when it hurt them. The stereotype, sure, but the reality too. When they entered a room, people noticed.
When I entered a room, people looked away.
I pulled in a breath and let it out slowly. It rattled in my chest. My lungs had always been weak.
Born premature, thrown into the world before I was ready.
And to top it all off, Mum didn't stay. Whether it was fear or guilt or the exhaustion of being handed a kid with too many complications, she was gone before I even got a chance to know her. Darryl never said much about it, but I knew enough to fill in the blanks. It was like I'd shown up already broken, and she didn't know how to love pieces.
And the lungs? Well, they weren't getting any better. We couldn't afford to "fix" anything. Not with the public system. Not with Darryl working his ass off to keep us afloat.
I grabbed my shower cap and gently fitted it over my locks, tucking them in with careful fingers. Then I shuffled toward the stall, gripping the edge of the sink for balance. I lowered myself onto the shower chair with a grunt, the plastic creaking under my weight like it was just as tired as me.
The cold water hit first. Sharp and biting, streaming over my shoulders and back like ice. I reached for the hot tap, twisting it slowly until the two streams mixed into something lukewarm, but it barely made a difference.
I didn't flinch. I never did anymore.
The water ran down my chest, dripping from my elbows, my knees, pooling at my feet and circling the drain. I stared at the swirling water, watching it twist and disappear like everything else that tried to stay.
~~~
"Victor Pappas?"
The nurse's voice echoed through the cramped waiting room, clipboard clutched in one hand, tone clipped and routine.
Little Victor, five years old, clutched Darryl's hand tighter. His cane: a tiny thing custom-made and painted blue—rested against the side of the chair. Darryl stood up slowly, gently tugging Victor to his feet.
"Come on, bud," he said in that soft voice he only used when Victor was scared. "Just a quick check-up, I promise. Nothing you haven't done before."
Victor nodded, trusting him without question, though his stomach twisted with nervous butterflies.
The tiled floor was too white, the air too sterile. Everything smelled like plastic and metal and cleaning chemicals. Cold. Clinical. Unwelcoming. The hallway seemed longer than usual as they walked through it together,
Victor leaning on his cane with a soft clack, clack, clack that echoed down the corridor. Nurses passed by, smiling too much or not at all. The exam room was filled with machines that beeped and hummed.
But to Victor, they were just noise. Just more adult stuff. He sat on the paper-covered bench, kicking his feet slightly while the doctors talked in words he didn't understand.
"Contracture in the left hamstring continues to affect gait…"
"Consider fitting for a leg brace by next quarter…"
"Pulmonary function borderline, especially in colder months…"
To Victor, it was all just static. They weren't really talking to him anyway.
He glanced up at Darryl, who stood by the door with his arms crossed and eyes narrowed in that way he always got when he was pretending not to worry.
Victor wanted to ask if they could stop for ice cream after. He wanted to ask if his leg would ever stop hurting in the mornings. If he'd ever be able to run like the other kids.
But he stayed quiet.
Because deep down, even at five, he already knew the answer.
~~~
The water dripped steadily now, soaking into my skin, the memory still lingering in my chest like smoke.
I blinked, eyes heavy, and let my head fall forward slightly, the water sliding down my spine.
The kid in that doctor's office had no idea how much harder it was going to get.
And maybe I still didn't know how much harder it could get from here.
But I stayed in the water anyway, because I couldn't cry.
Not right now.
Not again.