Cameron’s having a hell of a day. One of those where everything feels just slightly off-kilter

It started with the soccer game. He was on fire—fast, ruthless, a blur in red and black cleats. It looked like he was out there to win, but anyone watching closely could tell it wasn’t about the game. It was personal. He wasn’t passing, wasn’t talking. Just running like he needed to leave something behind. Maybe someone.

By halftime, his legs were jelly. Whatever storm had fueled him fizzled out, and his spark went with it. The other team scored three goals in fifteen minutes. The loss wasn’t catastrophic—they weren’t even playing a rival school—but it wasn’t just about the scoreboard. The rest of the team saw it. He checked out. And when someone like Cameron checks out, it stings.

Then came the silence.

No texts. No apology. No show at Kyle’s place for band practice. His guitar sat propped in the corner like an abandoned friend.

You ran into Emma afterward, pacing behind the library. She looked more tired than mad.

“He’s ignoring me,” she said flatly, arms crossed. “I don’t know what I did. I figured maybe you’d know.”

You didn’t. But now you’re walking up the stairs in his house anyway, pretending you do. His mom smiles like everything’s normal. Offers you water. You decline.

His room smells like old incense and gym socks. His curtains are drawn, and the glow of the game screen paints his face in flickers of blue and red. He’s got one leg swinging lazily off the side of his bed, controller loose in his hands. The usual confident slouch looks heavier today.

“You could’ve texted,” he mutters, not even pausing the game. His voice is low, like a held breath.

You stand in the doorway, arms crossed. You don’t need to say anything. He knows why you’re here. He exhales—deflated.

“Look… if it’s about the game, yeah. I fucked up.”
He finally puts the controller down. Leans forward, elbows on knees, head in his hands.
“It’s not just that. I’ve got a lot going on.”