Noah
I don't remember much of the three days after I hang up the phone. I remember skipping a study session I never skip. I remember Deshawn knocking on my door twice, both times getting turned away with some version of "I'm fine" that fools nobody, least of all him. I remember lying awake most nights, staring at the ceiling, replaying the conversation on a loop until the words stop making sense.
I know I made the call myself. I know nobody forced my hand. That doesn't make the hollow feeling in my chest any smaller, doesn't stop the constant, aching urge to check my phone for a text I told myself I didn't want anymore.
Practice suffers first. I miss routine plays, get snapped at by the coaching staff for a level of distraction I've never shown before, and by the third day Deshawn final
