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The crowd’s roar faded into static as Reki watched Langa cross the finish line — flawless, fast, perfect.
Again.
And he wasn’t even racing Adam this time. Just Reki. Just his best friend.
His stomach twisted.
Cherry patted his shoulder. “You did good,” he said with that composed voice, but Reki could hear what wasn’t said: You didn’t win. You never do.
Joe gave a low whistle. “You’ve improved, man. Not enough to beat the snow angel, but—”
Reki forced a grin. “Yeah. Thanks. Gonna go fix my board.”
No one stopped him.
He ducked behind the half-pipe and sat on the concrete, pulling his hoodie up even though it was humid. His fingers curled into fists, nails digging into his palms.
Langa’s laugh echoed in the distance — carefree, happy. Reki used to be that for him. Now he was just the one who couldn’t keep up.
Why do you even bother, Reki?
He tried to shake the voice off. It clung tighter.
You’ll never be enough. Not for them. Not for Langa.
His chest hurt. Breathing felt like pushing through water. His skateboard rested beside him, worn wheels and all, and he stared at it. It used to be his escape. Now it felt like a chain.
Langa noticed first.
Reki skipped S races. Stopped replying in the group chat. Stopped fixing boards at Dope Sketch.
The fifth voicemail Langa left was shakier than the last.
“Hey, Reki. It’s me again. Just wondering if you’re okay. I… miss you. I’m worried.”
Joe showed up at Reki’s place and knocked for five straight minutes. No answer.
Cherry hacked the street cam feed near Dope Sketch and got a timestamp of Reki leaving at 2 AM. Alone. Borderless.
Reki sat on the pedestrian overpass, watching cars stream beneath like veins under skin. The city was still awake. He wasn’t sure if he was.
He didn’t want to die.
But he didn’t really want to live either. Not like this. Not stuck in second place in a race he never asked to be in.
He thought of how easy it’d be. One step forward. Silence. Peace.
He gripped the railing.
And then — “Reki!”
He jolted.
Langa stood at the end of the bridge, panting like he’d sprinted blocks. Joe and Cherry were behind him, and Reki’s vision blurred with shame.
“What are you doing?” Langa’s voice cracked.
“I…” Reki looked down. “I wasn’t gonna jump. I was just—thinking.”
“That’s the problem,” Cherry said gently, stepping closer. “You’re thinking alone.”
Langa moved to him slowly. “You should’ve told me. I would’ve slowed down. I never wanted to leave you behind.”
Reki couldn’t hold it in anymore. The dam cracked.
“I’m tired, Langa! Of smiling and pretending I’m okay, of not being you, of losing every race and hating myself for it!”
Langa didn’t flinch. He stepped forward and hugged him. Hard.
“You’re not second place. You’re Reki. My best friend. The reason I even love skateboarding.”
Joe rubbed his back. “We’ve all been there, man. You just forgot what makes you you. Let us remind you.”
Cherry added softly, “You don’t have to win to matter.”
That night, they stayed at Joe’s restaurant after hours. No skateboards. Just ramen, warm tea, and silence filled with understanding.
Langa stayed beside Reki, pinky brushing his.
He didn’t say “I love you” yet. He didn’t have to.
He said, “I’m not going anywhere.”
And for the first time in weeks, Reki believed it.
Reki’s house was quiet when they got there.
His mom had long gone to bed, the lights off except for the one on in his room — still left on from when he left earlier that night. Like it had been waiting for him. Like someone believed he’d come back.
He slipped off his shoes, and Langa did the same behind him, careful, quiet.
“You sure?” Reki asked, his voice barely above a whisper. “You don’t have to stay.”
“I’m staying,” Langa said simply, like there wasn’t even a question.
Reki didn’t argue.
His room smelled faintly like wax and wood — boards stacked in the corner, some half-finished, others abandoned mid-fix. Langa glanced around quietly, noting the blanket pushed off the bed, the hoodie that looked like it hadn’t been washed in days.
He didn’t say anything.
Instead, he walked over, picked up the blanket, and shook it out.
“You sleep. I’ll stay right here,” he said, patting the edge of the bed like it was that easy.
But Reki hesitated. His fingers trembled slightly at his sides, voice thick:
“…I’m scared that if I close my eyes, that voice is gonna come back.”
Langa looked at him then — really looked.
And instead of saying something fake, like It’ll go away, he said the truth.
“Then I’ll stay awake too.”
He sat cross-legged on the floor next to Reki’s bed, arm resting on the mattress, their fingers only inches apart. Reki stared at him for a long moment.
“…You’re dumb,” he said, but it broke in the middle. His eyes welled up.
Langa smiled gently. “You’ve called me worse.”
Reki sat down on the bed and didn’t lie down right away. He just stared forward like he was still trying to convince himself this wasn’t a dream. Then slowly, he leaned down —
forehead resting against Langa’s.
No kiss. No big dramatic moment.
Just two boys sharing the same breath, and silence that felt safe.
“I wanted to disappear,” Reki admitted. “But you keep finding me.”
“I’ll always find you,” Langa whispered back.
That night, they didn’t fall asleep quickly.
Langa stayed on the floor until Reki’s breathing evened out. And when he finally climbed into the bed, curling beside his best friend, he didn’t touch him. Just stayed close. Just breathed with him.
And for the first time in a long time, Reki didn’t dream about falling.
He dreamed about skating.
With Langa.
And he didn’t feel left behind.
Morning sunlight crept through the blinds, spilling stripes of gold across Reki’s wall. It was warm. Soft. Gentle.
Langa woke first.
Reki had shifted in the night, curling unconsciously toward him, their foreheads nearly touching again. His expression — usually filled with so much noise and fire — was calm now. Peaceful. Like the storm had finally passed, at least for a little while.
Langa didn’t move. Didn’t want to risk waking him.
But Reki stirred anyway.
“Mornin’,” he mumbled, voice hoarse from sleep, eyes half-lidded and squinting against the light.
Langa gave the smallest smile. “Hey.”
Reki blinked, still groggy. Then his eyes widened a little.
“You stayed,” he whispered.
“I told you I would.”
Reki looked away quickly, cheeks flushing — not from embarrassment exactly, but from the overwhelming feeling of being seen. It was almost too much.
But Langa didn’t push. He just lay there, eyes steady, breath quiet.
Reki swallowed hard. “That voice… It’s not gone. But it’s quieter.”
“I’m glad,” Langa said gently. “You don’t have to fight it alone.”
Reki reached forward, thumb brushing a piece of Langa’s messy hair out of his eyes. His hand lingered. Trembled a little.
Then, softly, like a secret:
“Can I kiss you?”
Langa blinked — surprised, not because he didn’t want it, but because he didn’t expect Reki to say it first. Not now. Not when he was still healing.
But maybe that was exactly why.
“Only if you want to,” Langa whispered. “No pressure. No expectations.”
Reki gave a shaky laugh. “God, you’re such a good person it’s annoying.”
“Still saying that as you’re leaning in?”
“I am leaning in, huh?” Reki murmured.
And then he did.
The kiss wasn’t perfect — a little off-center, a little hesitant — but it was real. Reki’s fingers tangled softly in Langa’s hoodie sleeve, grounding himself, and Langa leaned into it like he’d been waiting forever but could’ve waited even longer if Reki needed.
They pulled apart slowly.
“I liked that,” Reki whispered.
“Me too,” Langa said, brushing his nose against Reki’s like a cat. “We can take everything slow.”
“Even the kissing?”
Langa smiled. “Especially the kissing.”
They stayed like that for a while, sunlight slowly inching up the bedframe, breathing in sync.
And for the first time in weeks, Reki didn’t feel like he had to run to catch up.
He felt like he was exactly where he belonged.
It had been a week.
A quiet week. A warm one. Reki hadn’t gone back to S yet. Joe and Cherry didn’t ask why — they just made sure he kept showing up to ramen nights and didn’t eat alone. His mom stopped worrying when she noticed the smile actually reached his eyes again. And Langa… Langa had stayed. Every day after school, every night he could.
They didn’t kiss again. Not yet. But they didn’t need to. Holding hands on the way home, forehead touches, shared laughter — it was enough.
But there was one thing Reki hadn’t touched.
His skateboard.
“Come on,” Langa said one evening, nudging his shoulder. They were outside Dope Sketch, sunset glowing low and golden behind them.
Reki looked at the boards lined up inside, like ghosts of who he used to be. His hands flexed nervously at his sides. “I don’t know if I’m ready.”
“You don’t have to race,” Langa said, quiet. “I just thought… maybe we could go to that old rooftop. Just skate. Like the first time.”
Reki glanced at him.
Langa wasn’t pushing. Just offering.
Reki swallowed hard.
“…Okay.”
The rooftop was empty. Just the open sky, faint wind, and the city breathing below.
Reki stepped onto his board like it might buck him off — but it didn’t. His balance came back faster than he expected. His muscle memory held him like an old friend.
He pushed off.
Slow. Uneven.
Langa watched silently as Reki rolled across the rooftop, arms out like wings. No flips. No speed. Just motion.
And then—
He laughed.
It slipped out, startled and light, and he turned around with wide eyes.
“Did you hear that?” Reki asked, stunned. “I just— I laughed.”
Langa grinned. “Yeah. It was the best sound I’ve heard in weeks.”
Reki rolled back toward him and came to a shaky stop. He was smiling, breathless.
“I thought skating hated me,” he said. “Like I lost whatever made it fun.”
“You didn’t lose it,” Langa said gently, stepping closer. “You just forgot it wasn’t something you had to earn. You’ve always had it.”
Reki’s voice cracked. “Even when I couldn’t keep up with you?”
“Especially then.”
They sat on the edge of the rooftop after that, boards beside them, legs swinging freely.
“You think I’m okay now?” Reki asked.
Langa rested his head on Reki’s shoulder. “I think you’re healing. And I’ll be here the whole time.”
Reki closed his eyes and leaned into the weight of him, of them — soft, safe, steady.
“I think I’m ready to skate again,” he said, quiet.
“Just for fun?”
Reki smiled. “Just for fun.”
It was late.
Dope Sketch had closed hours ago, but the lights in the back workshop were still on — barely flickering, warm, quiet. The hum of the old vending machine filled the silence.
Joe leaned against the wall with a half-finished protein bar. Cherry sat on the workbench, legs crossed, fidgeting with a small wrench.
Reki sat on the floor, arms around his knees, back against a cabinet. He looked small. Like he’d shrunk.
They hadn’t said anything at first.
He’d just asked:
“Can I talk to you guys?”
And now he was trying to breathe around the thing stuck in his throat.
Joe finally broke the silence. Softly. “We’re listening, kid.”
Reki’s voice was thin. “I—I don’t really know how to say it.”
“You don’t have to say it right,” Cherry said. “Just say it.”
Reki laughed, but it was hollow. “I almost didn’t come back.”
Joe blinked. “Come back from…?”
Reki looked down at his hands.
“From that night. The one after I lost to Langa again. After Adam.”
His knuckles were white, gripping his sleeves.
“I thought about jumping. Off the overpass. I was tired, man. So tired of being left behind.”
The silence after that wasn’t heavy.
It was shattered.
Joe stepped forward, eyes wide with something close to horror. “Reki—”
“I didn’t do it,” Reki said quickly, voice shaking. “Because Langa found me. And you guys were there, too, I know you were. I just… I never told you what I was thinking that night.”
He looked up.
And the tears came.
Big, hot, quiet sobs that wracked his whole body before he could stop them. Like a dam had split open. His breath hitched, and he ducked his head like he was ashamed of it, like crying was something weak.
Cherry was the first to kneel in front of him. “Reki.”
“I’m sorry,” Reki gasped. “I didn’t mean to scare you. I didn’t mean to make everything about me, I just— I was so lonely, and everyone kept getting better, and I thought— I thought maybe if I disappeared—”
Joe sat down next to him and pulled him into a hug so strong it knocked the air from Reki’s lungs.
“Don’t ever apologize for hurting, Reki,” Joe said, voice low and firm. “That’s not weakness. That’s being human.”
Cherry placed a hand on Reki’s back. “And if you ever feel like disappearing again, we’ll drag you back. Kicking and screaming.”
“I thought you guys would think I was pathetic…”
“We think you’re brave,” Joe said. “You told us. That’s the bravest damn thing you could do.”
Reki sobbed harder, hands clutching at Joe’s shirt like a lifeline.
It wasn’t pretty crying. It was red-faced, snot-dripping, breath-breaking crying. But neither of them flinched. Neither of them let go.
They just stayed.
Cherry eventually sat fully on the floor beside him. Not stiff. Not judging. Just there.
“I never wanted to be Langa,” Reki whispered, quieter now. “I just didn’t want him to leave me behind.”
Cherry gave a tired sigh, not annoyed — sad. “That’s what love feels like sometimes. Scary. Messy.”
“Messy as hell,” Joe agreed. “But worth it. You’re worth it.”
When Reki finally calmed, face red and damp, he rested his head on Joe’s shoulder, and Cherry passed him a water bottle without a word.
“I feel gross,” he mumbled.
“Good,” Cherry said. “It means you let it out.”
They stayed in the shop like that for a while. Three generations of skaters, sitting in silence, letting the dust settle.
And for the first time, Reki didn’t feel like he was dragging behind.
He felt held.
He felt home.
It was a quiet evening when Langa stopped by Joe’s restaurant. He wasn’t expecting much — just ramen, maybe a soda — but the look Joe gave him as he sat down was different.
Softer.
Older.
“Reki came to us,” Joe said, sliding him a bowl. “Told us what happened that night. All of it.”
Langa froze, chopsticks in hand. His heart clenched.
“He cried,” Cherry added, appearing behind him like a ghost, sipping tea. “Hard. Told us what he thought. What he almost did.”
Langa’s breath hitched. “…Is he okay?”
“Better,” Joe said. “Not fixed. Not done. But healing.”
“He said you stayed,” Cherry added. “That you didn’t rush him. That you didn’t leave.”
Langa looked down at his bowl. “Of course I stayed.”
“Good,” Joe said, voice quiet for once. “Because sometimes people don’t.”
Langa swallowed. “I love him, you know.”
“We know,” Cherry said. “He’s starting to know it, too.”
It was late again.
Stars out. Skateboards under their feet. Rooftop quiet. Just like before.
They weren’t skating. Just sitting.
Reki had his arms wrapped around his knees again, but this time, he didn’t look small. Just thoughtful.
“You told them?” Langa asked, breaking the quiet.
Reki nodded. “I cried all over Joe’s sleeve. Cherry pretended he wasn’t crying, but I think he was.”
Langa smiled a little. “I’m proud of you.”
Reki looked at him. Really looked.
“I kept thinking,” he said softly, “that if I said it out loud, everyone would think less of me.”
“I think more of you,” Langa said. “Way more.”
Reki’s throat worked. He looked down at his hands. “I kept waiting to feel like I deserved you.”
“You never had to earn me,” Langa whispered, scooting closer. “You already have me.”
Reki turned toward him, eyes glassy but steady.
“Langa.”
“Yeah?”
“I love you.”
It came out rough. Honest. A little broken. A little scared.
But it was real.
Langa’s breath caught in his throat. He didn’t say anything for a second — just looked at Reki like the sky had cracked open.
Then he leaned in.
And this kiss was different.
No hesitation. No fear. Just Langa holding Reki’s face like it was the most precious thing in the world, like he was kissing every broken piece back together. Like he wasn’t going anywhere.
When they pulled back, Reki was smiling. And crying. And laughing.
All at once.
“Dumbass,” he whispered, wiping his face with his sleeve.
“I love you too,” Langa said again, just to hear it out loud.