The Dent in the Panel

The dent is mine. I pressed the panel in the garage light this morning and the metal caved where Brayden's shoulder put it. The bruise on my hip is darker than last night, purple going yellow at the edge. My body keeps a record I can't argue with.

Brayden said swimmer like it was a weight I should drop. I didn't drop. I stood there with his shoulder in my chest and I didn't drop. But I heard it. I heard it the whole drive home with the window cracked and the radio off. I heard it on the bed when I was trying to find a position the hip would let me sleep in.

I texted Danny one word: Done. He gave me three dots, then nothing. Either he agrees the gym is cooked or he thinks I quit. I don't know which silence is worse. The leak was the gym, the windows, the alumni with phones — I wrote that down yesterday and I meant it. But Brayden put his shoulder into me. That's not a leak. That's a door shutting on your fingers. The difference matters.

Lachie at the water fountain, phone up, then a post under a fake handle. Not brave enough for his own name and brave enough to film patterns and hand them over. I want to say something mean about him. I'm not writing it. If I write it down it becomes the thing I think about him and I won't let that be the thing.

The AIS envelope is still on the bench. Still sealed. I put the coffee down next to it and I didn't open it. Whatever it is — I'm not ready to make it a thing I have to act on tonight.