The mattress sagged like it was sick of holding him. No matter where Erick shifted, he slid back into the dip in the middle. Sweat slicked his shirt, soaking the fabric until it clung to his chest and stomach. Miami heat never gave mercy, not even at night.
Above him, the ceiling fan ticked with every turn. Not a smooth spin, not even white noise — metal grinding against metal, sharp and uneven. It wasn't comfort. It was a reminder. Like a clock that didn't keep time, just kept telling him he was stuck.
The room stank. Always did. Bleach from Mrs. Garcia's half-hearted mopping, layered with sour food left too long, chips smashed underfoot, soda cans bleeding syrup across the floor. Ants sometimes came at night, crawling over the aluminum. He never cleaned them. What was the point? Nobody came in here but him. Nobody cared.
He pressed the phone against his chest, the glow fading as the screen dimmed. Sixteen years old. Still felt like thirteen most days. Thirteen, when his thighs rubbed raw under his uniform shorts, when the stairs made his lungs collapse, when sweat dripped down his temples before first period even started.
He'd dropped weight since then. Some. Not enough. Never enough.
Lazy.
The word still burned. Coach Martinez had muttered it once — one time — after Erick bent over, hands on his knees, sucking air like he was drowning. Just a mutter. But it hit harder than all the laughter from the bleachers. The word stuck, like gum pressed under a desk. He carried it everywhere. Every locker room. Every bathroom mirror. Every night he stared at the ceiling like this.
At school, nobody called him Erick. He was Big E. Not even cruel half the time. Just… fact. Like his name had been replaced by the body he carried. Big E. Like he was a mascot instead of a person. A joke that walked the halls.
Dinner was spaghetti again. It was always spaghetti. Overcooked, noodles stuck together in clumps, watery red sauce sliding to the edges of the paper plate. Mrs. Garcia slapped it down without looking at him, already turning to serve the next kid.
He forked it fast, then slowed down, stretching bites out so he wouldn't finish too quick. Across the table, the little ones bickered over who got the last bread roll. The older ones scrolled through their phones, blue glow making their faces look bored and ghostly. Nobody looked at him. He could've stopped breathing mid-bite and maybe no one would notice.
The scrape of his fork against the plate was too loud, so he stopped. Let the noodles sit in a cold, clumpy pile. His stomach hurt from being half full, but it hurt worse to be there at all.
Later, in the bathroom, the mirror hit him like a punch. Same fat face. Same soft jawline. Shirt clinging to the swell of his stomach. He turned sideways, sucked in until his ribs ached, until the shape almost looked different. Almost normal. Held it until his chest screamed. Let go. The gut pushed back out, brutal and obvious.
"Fuck," he muttered, low. The word fogged the glass for a second, then vanished like it didn't matter.
Back in bed, he killed the light. The fan clicked overhead. His phone glowed against the dark. He scrolled highlight reels — Brazilian kids his age juggling barefoot in alleys, crowds clapping like they were kings. Kids sharp as knives, lean, quick, making the ball look tied to their feet.
His stomach twisted. His chest knotted. They were his age. Same world. Different planet.
A notification popped in: a photo posted on the school's Instagram page. Some announcement about a new student, blurry picture with a caption about "welcoming our international family." Erick didn't read it. Didn't care. He scrolled past, back to Neymar highlights.
The fan clicked, steady and broken. His voice came out quiet, almost a whisper.
Why not me?
No answer. Just the fan, keeping time in a room that never changed.