Marcus sat on the bleachers, his arms crossed tightly over his chest as he stared blankly at the pickup basketball game in front of him. The rhythmic squeak of sneakers on the court and the distant shouts of players echoed through the gym, but it all felt like background noise to him. He’d brought his basketball gear, but the idea of joining the game seemed pointless. His head was elsewhere—on Betty.
Ever since he’d seen her kiss Brent, a bitter coldness had settled in his chest, spreading like frost on a windowpane. The scene played on a loop in his mind: her laughter, Brent’s confident smirk, the way they seemed so… right together. It made his stomach churn with resentment and a touch of jealousy he wasn’t ready to admit. The feeling left a raw, hollow ache that he tried to bury under a layer of cynicism. He’d reverted to his old habits—sneering, taunting, and keeping everyone at arm’s length, the way he always had when he felt like his world was slipping out of control.
“You’re really back to being an asshole, huh?” Stacey’s voice cut through his thoughts like a shard of glass.
Marcus turned his head sharply, startled by her sudden presence. Stacey stood at the base of the bleachers, one hand on her hip and the other clutching a water bottle. She climbed the steps casually, plopping down beside him with the kind of confidence only she could pull off.
“What do you want?” he muttered, his tone defensive.
Stacey rolled her eyes, twisting the cap off her water bottle. “To remind you that acting like a jerk isn’t going to solve anything,” she said bluntly, taking a sip. “You’re mad at Betty, but you’re taking it out on everyone else. It’s not a good look, Marcus.”
Marcus glared at her, his jaw tightening. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Oh, please,” Stacey shot back, her voice laced with sarcasm. “It’s written all over your face. You’ve got that whole brooding, ‘poor me’ vibe going on. And honestly? It’s exhausting.”
Marcus’s scowl deepened. “You’re one to talk.”
Stacey shrugged, unfazed by his attempt to deflect. “Fair. I’ve been a mess too. But at least I’m working on it. Maybe you should try that instead of… whatever this is.” She gestured vaguely at him, her expression equal parts annoyed and concerned.
Marcus didn’t respond immediately. He stared at the game, watching the players weave around each other with effortless coordination. For a moment, he thought about jumping in, letting the physicality of the game drown out the noise in his head. But the weight in his chest kept him rooted in place.
Stacey sighed, leaning back on her hands. “Look, I get it. You feel betrayed or whatever. But here’s the thing: pushing people away isn’t going to make it hurt less. If anything, it’s just going to make you lonelier.” Her tone softened slightly, a rare glimpse of genuine empathy slipping through her usual sarcasm. “Betty isn’t the only one who cares about you, you know.”
Marcus’s throat tightened, but he kept his gaze fixed on the court. He wanted to brush her off, to tell her to mind her own business, but her words lingered, heavy and unavoidable. Deep down, he knew she was right, even if he wasn’t ready to admit it. Instead, he stayed silent, letting the distant shouts and laughter of the game fill the space between them.
Stacey stood up, brushing imaginary dust off her jeans. “Suit yourself,” she said with a shrug, her voice returning to its usual briskness. “But don’t say I didn’t try.” She started down the bleachers, pausing halfway to glance back at him. “Oh, and Marcus? Just because you feel like crap doesn’t mean you have to act like it.”
With that, she walked away, leaving Marcus alone with his thoughts and the quiet ache of her parting words. He exhaled slowly, running a hand through his hair. He didn’t have the energy to join the game or even pretend to be okay. For now, all he could do was sit and try to make sense of the mess inside his head.