Saturday afternoon, the air felt heavy—sunlight thick on the asphalt, the kind that makes everything look slower. Asher hadn't planned on going anywhere. He'd spent most of the morning lying in bed, watching dust drift through a slice of window light, phone face-down beside him.
Jordan's text from the night before kept replaying in his head:
open gym tomorrow. no pressure. just fyi.
He'd ignored it then, but now, around two-thirty, his brain started bargaining with him.
He wasn't joining. He'd just look.
He'd walk past the gym, maybe peek in, maybe not.
That wasn't the same as going back.
By the time he finished arguing with himself, he was already tying his shoes.
The gym doors were propped open again. The smell hit first—floor wax and sweat, sharp and familiar. A low hum of voices echoed inside, the sound of sneakers sliding, a ball hitting the rim, the hollow thunk of it rolling away.
He stood in the doorway longer than he meant to.
Jordan spotted him first. "Hey, no-pressure guy actually showed up!"
Asher's mouth twitched. "Didn't say I was staying."
"Sure." Jordan passed the ball off to another player and jogged over, sweat darkening his jersey. "That's what they all say before they start shooting."
"I'm just watching."
"Cool, cool," Jordan said, nodding like he absolutely didn't believe him. "Benches are free. Grab water if you want—coach keeps the fridge stocked."
Asher sat, the bleachers creaking under him. The guys ran a half-court scrimmage, nothing organized, just movement—crossovers, shouts, quick bursts of laughter when someone air-balled. It should've felt ordinary, but every bounce seemed to hit somewhere deep.
Jordan played loose, joking even when he missed. The kind of player who made the court feel lighter for everyone else.
"You sure you don't wanna run one?" he called mid-play.
Asher shook his head.
"Suit yourself."
The game went on. Asher's eyes tracked every pass, every shift in spacing. The rhythm was muscle memory—he could almost feel where he'd be standing if he were out there. The thought made his palms sweat.
When the scrimmage ended, the players grabbed towels and scattered. Jordan plopped down beside him, breathing hard.
"See? Nobody bites."
Asher smirked. "You sure about that? Looked like your guy almost took your head off."
"Occupational hazard." Jordan leaned forward, elbows on knees. "Seriously though, no pressure, but the ball rack's right there."
Asher followed his gaze. A row of orange leather, one resting slightly out of place. His stomach tightened.
"I haven't touched one in a while."
"So? It's like riding a bike." Jordan grinned. "Except the bike yells 'defense!' sometimes."
Asher laughed despite himself. "You're terrible at metaphors."
"I get that a lot." Jordan stood. "I'm gonna hit the showers. If you change your mind, just turn the lights off when you're done. Switch is by the door."
And then he was gone.
The gym quieted. Only the hum of the lights and the faint squeak of his shoes when he shifted.
He stared at the rack again. The ball seemed to stare back, daring him.
Finally, he got up.
The first touch was strange—heavier than he remembered, the grain rough against his fingertips. He dribbled once, awkwardly. The sound echoed too loud in the empty space. Another bounce, smoother this time.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
His hand remembered the rhythm before his head caught up. Two dribbles, spin, fake pass, pivot. His body filled in the blanks. The sound grew steady. The echo hit the walls and came back softer, almost like approval.
He took a shot from the free-throw line. Missed. The ball clanged, rolled back toward him. He tried again. Rim, bounce, in.
Something in his chest loosened. He didn't smile, not really, but the corner of his mouth lifted.
He shot until his arms ached and the ball felt warm under his palms.
When he finally stopped, he sat on the floor, back against the wall, sweat sticking his shirt to his shoulders. The lights above buzzed softly. The clock on the far wall ticked past four.
For the first time in a long time, the noise in his head wasn't louder than the gym.
He left the gym through the side door, the late-day sun slicing across the court. The parking lot shimmered with heat. He tugged his hood over his damp hair and started walking.
Halfway down the block, a voice called after him. "Hey, gym ghost!"
He turned. Leah Kim stood by the bike racks, sketchbook tucked under one arm.
"I was dropping off flyers for the art club," she said, nodding toward the gym. "Didn't expect to see anyone still in there."
Asher rubbed the back of his neck. "Wasn't really in there. Just… around."
She tilted her head. "You've got the look of someone who was definitely in there."
He gave a small, guilty grin. "Maybe a little."
"Good." She smiled, genuine. "You looked like you needed it."
He frowned. "What does that mean?"
"Nothing bad," she said quickly. "You just looked… lighter."
They started walking the same direction without planning to. The sidewalks were cracked and glowing orange from the sunset.
"You live near here?" she asked.
"Couple blocks over. Apartment complex by the corner store."
"I'm over on Elm. So, you do play basketball."
He hesitated. "Did. Trying to forget how."
"That working out?"
"Not really."
Leah nodded, adjusting her strap. "For what it's worth, sometimes forgetting isn't the point. Sometimes you just remember differently."
Asher looked at her, confused, then back at the sidewalk. "You say stuff like that a lot?"
"Only when it sounds better than silence."
He laughed quietly. "Fair."
They reached the crosswalk. The light blinked red to white. She balanced on the curb's edge, arms out like a tightrope walker.
"You coming Monday?" she asked.
"To what?"
"School, obviously." She grinned. "Jordan said you might join the team."
Asher groaned. "He's unbelievable."
"Yeah," she said, stepping down. "But he's not usually wrong."
The walk signal turned green. She crossed first. He followed a few steps behind, watching the way her hair caught the light.
When they split off—her right, him left—she waved once without looking back.
He found himself smiling again. It felt weird, but not bad.
That night, the apartment was quiet except for the TV in his mom's room. A rerun of some medical show bled through the wall. He lay on his bed, still in his hoodie, scrolling aimlessly.
A message popped up.
Jordan: didn't expect you to stay that long 👀
Jordan: how'd it feel
Asher stared at the screen for a minute, then typed:
Asher: heavy
He deleted it.
Typed again:
Asher: fine
Deleted that too.
Finally he wrote:
Asher: better than nothing
A moment later:
Jordan: that's the whole point man
He dropped the phone beside him and stared at the ceiling. The silence stretched thin until, faintly, through the cracked window, came that same steady rhythm.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
He didn't know if it was someone else or if his head had just learned to keep it going. Either way, he let it play.
And for the first time in months, the sound didn't feel like pressure.
It felt like breathing.