Page 14 of Endo

How the fuck am I supposed to just climb back on this thing and pretend the crash didn’t happen? How do I pretend I don’t feel it every damn day—the weight of walking away when Cruz didn’t? I grip the handlebars tighter, my knuckles protesting the strain, but I don’t let go.

I can’t.

The garage is silent, the hum of my thoughts louder than anything else. The bike is ready. My gear is ready. Fuck, everything’s ready but me. I try to breathe, try to steady the shaking in my hands, but it doesn’t help. My heart pounds against my ribcage, a chaotic rhythm I can’t fucking control.

This bike isn’t just a machine anymore. It’s a reminder. Of what I lost. Of what I walked away from. And of the fact that no matter how much I try, I can’t erase the past. I can’t undo the crash. And I sure as hell can’t bring Cruz back.

My grip on the handlebars tightens again, my head bowing forward until my forehead rests against the curve of the tank. It feels like a confession, like I’m admitting something I’ve been trying to bury.

For the first time in months, Iwantto ride. I want to feel the adrenaline, the speed, the freedom. But I don’t know if I can. Because the last time I rode this bike, my best friend didn’t make it. Cruz died that night, and somehow, despite two shattered legs and a crash that should’ve killed me too, I survived. I don’t know how. Hell, I’m not even sure I was supposed to.

Maybe I should’ve gone with him.

The sound of the garage door creaking open pulls me out of my thoughts. I look up to see Sayshen stepping in, a box of tools in one hand and a coffee in the other. He stops when he sees me, a slow grin spreading across his face.

“Well, look at this,” he says, setting the tools down on the nearest table. “Thought I’d never see you on that bike again.”

“Don’t get too excited,” I mutter, my voice low and rough. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Sure, it doesn’t,” Sayshen replies, his tone easy but his eyes sharp. He steps closer, eyeing me like he’s trying to gauge how far he can push. “It’s progress, Reign. Even if you don’t want to admit it.”

I grunt, looking away. “I’m not ready.”

“Yeah? Or is it that you don’t think you’re ready?” He leans against the table, crossing his arms. “There’s a difference.”

“My body isn’t ready,” I snap, holding up my hands for emphasis. “Look at me. I can’t even grip the damn handlebars properly.”

“That might have something to do with you punching everything in sight,” Sayshen shoots back, his tone losing its softness. “Maybe stop using your fists as your personal outlet, and your hands might heal.”

I glare at him, my frustration bubbling to the surface. “Don’t start with me, Sayshen. I’m not in the mood for one of your pep talks.”

“And I’m not in the mood to watch you tear yourself apart,” Sayshen counters, his voice rising just enough to push through my defenses. “You’re not the only one who’s struggling, Reign. We all lost Cruz. But you’re making it harder for everyone by shutting us out and pretending like you’ve got it all figured out.”

“I don’t have it figured out!” The words explode out of me before I can stop them, echoing off the garage walls like gunshots. My hands tighten around the grips until my bruised knuckles protest, the pain grounding me in the moment. “I don’t know how to fix this, or myself, or any of it! So stop acting like you know better!”

Sayshen doesn’t flinch. He stands his ground, arms crossed over his chest, his eyes fixed on me with a mix of exasperation and understanding. “I don’t know better. But I know you. And I knew Cruz. And I know we’re all drowning without him.”

His words are like a punch to the gut. I don’t want to hear it, but I know he’s right. He always is, even when I hate him for it.

“We were supposed to have each other’s backs,” I mutter, more to myself than to him. My voice cracks, and I hate it. “But what do you do when your back’s broken?”

“You let someone else carry the weight for a while,” Sayshen says simply, the frustration in his voice softening. He steps closer, his gaze never leaving mine. “You’re not the only one hurting, man. Cruz wasn’t just your best friend. He was mine too. We were a trio. You, me, and him. Remember?”

I swallow hard, looking away because I can’t stand the way his words scrape against the raw edges of my grief. “Yeah,” I say hoarsely. “I remember.”

“Then stop trying to carry this alone,” he says, his voice tightening. “Welost him, Reign. Not just you. Hell, I lost both my best friends that day. Cruz is gone, yeah—somewhere none of us can reach—but you? You’re still here, and yet you’re not. You’ve been doing everything you can to push us all away, to pushmeaway.”

The air feels heavy between us, the tension thick enough to suffocate. But then, out of nowhere, Sayshen lets out a dry laugh. “You remember that time we tried to go to the beach, and Cruz convinced us we could haul a keg in the trunk of my car?”

I blink, caught off guard. “Yeah,” I say slowly. “It leaked all over your backseat.”

“All over,” Sayshen confirms, grinning now. “And Cruz swore he could fix it before my dad noticed. What’d he use? Duct tape?”

“Duct tape and a towel,” I say, the memory flickering to life. Against all odds, I feel a laugh bubbling up. “Your dad still grounded you for a month when he found out.”

“A month? Try two,” Sayshen corrects, shaking his head. “And Cruz spent half of it sneaking over with his PlayStation so we could play games.”

“That sounds like Cruz,” I say, and for the first time in what feels like forever, the ache in my chest isn’t all-consuming. It’s still there, but it’s softened by something warmer, something almost... good.

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