Azzi realizes very quickly that pretending is harder than it sounded in her head.
It starts with the shoes.
She’s standing in what she now understands is a locker room—her locker room—staring down at a pair of basketball sneakers like they’re some kind of foreign object.
They look worn in. Broken in. Loved.
Like they belong to someone who knows exactly what they’re doing.
“…you gonna put those on, or just stare at them until practice ends?”
Azzi flinches, looking up.
A girl is leaning against the locker next to hers, arms crossed, eyebrow raised in amusement.
Dark hair, sharp eyes—comfortable in a way that makes Azzi think she’s been here forever.
“Uh,” Azzi says intelligently.
The girl snorts. “Rough morning, huh?”
Azzi forces a small smile. “Something like that.”
The girl pushes off the locker and steps closer, nudging the shoe with her foot. “Coach is already in a mood,” she adds. “So unless you’re trying to die today, I’d put them on.”
Azzi nods quickly. “Right. Yeah. Put them on. I can do that.”
The girl gives her a look.
Except it doesn’t feel like hers here.
“Yeah,” Azzi says, a little too fast. “Just—head still hurts.”
The girl’s expression softens slightly. “Yeah, no kidding. You took a hit yesterday.”
So everyone knows about that.
“Take it easy, alright?” the girl says, slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Even if Coach pretends concussions aren’t real.”
Azzi lets out a weak laugh. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
The girl pauses in the doorway. “You coming?”
Azzi glances back at the shoes.
She hopes she sounds convincing.
The court is louder than she expects.
Shoes squeaking. Balls bouncing. Voices overlapping.
Azzi hangs back near the sideline, clutching a basketball like it might explode if she holds it wrong.
Okay. It’s just basketball.
Her brain immediately counters:
A coach—clipboard, whistle, intimidating—is looking directly at her.
Azzi nods quickly, stepping forward.
The ball hits the floor in a steady rhythm, her hands moving almost automatically.
Her body knows what to do.
Another teammate—this one taller, with a relaxed grin—falls into step beside her.
The girl laughs. “You look like you’ve never seen a basketball before.”
Because I haven’t. Not like this.
“Just a little off today,” Azzi says.
“Mm.” The girl studies her. “Well, try not to be too off. Paige will have a heart attack.”
As if summoned by the thought—
Paige jogs over, ponytail bouncing, eyes locked onto Azzi like she’s the only thing that matters on the entire court.
“You okay?” Paige asks, breath slightly uneven, scanning her face. “You looked out of it this morning.”
Azzi swallows. “I’m fine.”
Paige’s brows knit together.
“You sure?” she presses. “You don’t have to push it today. I can talk to Coach—”
“I said I’m fine,” Azzi snaps.
The words come out sharper than she means them to.
The air between them shifts.
“…okay,” Paige says slowly.
“I didn’t—” Azzi starts, then stops. Because how does she explain this? Sorry, I’m not actually your girlfriend and I don’t know how to exist here?
She exhales. “I’m just… tired.”
Paige studies her for a second longer.
Then she nods, but it’s hesitant. “Alright,” she says. “Just—don’t overdo it, okay?”
Like she wants to say something else.
“Bueckers!” the coach barks.
Paige grimaces. “Duty calls.”
She bumps Azzi’s shoulder lightly as she passes. “Be careful, baby.”
Azzi stands there, heart racing.
It shouldn’t feel like anything.
It definitely shouldn’t feel like that.
At least, that’s how it feels.
Azzi misses passes she should catch.
Hesitates when she should shoot.
Moves half a second too slow, like she’s constantly buffering.
“Fudd, what are you doing?” the coach snaps at one point.
“Sorry,” Azzi mutters, heat creeping up her neck.
She catches Paige watching her from across the court.
Concern written all over her face.
It makes everything worse.
Because Azzi doesn’t know how to fix something she doesn’t understand.
By the time practice ends, her head is pounding again.
She’s sitting on the bench, elbows on her knees, staring at the floor when someone drops down beside her.
“You’re really off today.”
Azzi doesn’t have to look to know it’s Paige.
“I know,” she says quietly.
Then—gentler—“Talk to me.”
“I am talking,” she says, still not looking up.
“No, you’re not,” Paige replies.
Azzi exhales sharply. “I just had a bad practice, Paige. It’s not that deep.”
Paige lets out a small, frustrated laugh. “It’s not just practice and you know it.”
Azzi finally looks at her.
And regrets it immediately.
Because Paige looks… hurt.
“I don’t get it,” Paige says, shaking her head slightly. “You’ve been weird since you woke up. You’re distant, you’re snappy—did I do something?”
The question lands heavy.
“No,” Azzi says quickly. “No, you didn’t do anything.”
“Then what is it?” Paige presses. “Because you won’t even look at me half the time.”
If she looks too long, she might break.
“I just need space,” Azzi says.
The second the words leave her mouth, she knows they’re wrong.
Azzi nods, even though everything in her chest twists painfully.
Azzi looks up, startled. “Paige—”
But Paige’s expression has closed off slightly.
“I’ll give you space,” she says. “If that’s what you want.”
“It’s not—” Azzi starts, then stops.
“…yeah,” Azzi says instead.
Then she turns and walks away.
Azzi watches her go, something heavy settling in her chest.
Because this was supposed to be simple.
Because Paige isn’t just part of this life.
It hurts more than it should.
That night, Azzi lies awake in the same unfamiliar bed.
Staring at the same unfamiliar ceiling.
Except now it feels a little less unfamiliar.
Paige steps in, hesitating when she sees Azzi still awake.
Azzi pushes herself up slightly. “Hey.”
There’s an awkward pause.
Paige shifts her weight. “I just—um—wanted to check on you.”
Paige doesn’t look convinced.
But she steps closer anyway.
Careful. Like she’s not sure she’s allowed to anymore.
“Your head still hurting?” Paige asks.
Paige reaches out—then hesitates.
Something in her chest aches.
“…you can,” Azzi says quietly.
Paige’s eyes flicker to hers.
Slowly, Paige closes the distance, her fingers brushing lightly against Azzi’s temple.
It makes Azzi’s breath catch.
“You’re warm,” Paige murmurs. “You sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fine,” Azzi says anyway.
Paige studies her for a long moment.
Then, softer—“You know you can tell me anything, right?”
Paige nods, even though it’s clear she doesn’t fully believe her.
And before Azzi can think better of it, she reaches out and catches Paige’s wrist.
“I…” she starts, then falters.
But the words won’t come.
Because how do you tell someone their entire relationship doesn’t exist in your mind?
How do you say I don’t remember loving you when they so clearly love you now?
“…stay?” she says instead.
Paige’s expression softens instantly.
“Yeah,” she says, like it was never even a question.
She slips into the bed beside her, leaving just enough space to be careful.
Azzi stares at the space between them.
Resting her head lightly against Paige’s shoulder.
Paige stills for half a second.
Then relaxes, her arm coming up instinctively to wrap around Azzi.
“Hey,” she murmurs softly.
For the first time all day, her mind quiets.
“Hey,” she whispers back.
And as she drifts off, one thought lingers—
I don’t know how to tell you the truth.
But another follows, softer, more dangerous—
I’m starting to not want to.
