ball-on-the-exycourt

Nicky, sweetie. My darling boy. My sweet summer child. Bless your heart.

Yes, he’s loud. Yes, he can be annoying. He jokes too much, talks too fast, and pushes until someone reacts, because at least that’s something. At least that means they’re still there.

But no one stops to think about what happens when Nicky doesn’t push.

No one notices how closely he watches everyone. How he tracks their moods like it’s instinct. Who’s eating and who isn’t. Who’s sleeping and who’s pretending. Who needs a distraction, who needs space, who needs to be dragged into something ridiculous just to keep them from spiraling.

He knows.

He always knows.

And he adjusts himself around it.

He laughs louder when things get too quiet. He talks faster when tension starts building. He throws himself into arguments just to redirect them. He lets people snap at him because it’s easier than letting them hurt each other.

He makes himself the easiest target on purpose.

Because if they’re focused on him, they’re not focused on tearing each other apart.

People call it annoying. They say he doesn’t know when to stop.

But the truth is: Nicky knows exactly when to stop.

He just doesn’t let himself.

Because if he stops, everything else keeps going.

People forget where he came from. That he was raised in a home that didn’t accept him, that tried to change him, that sent him away to be “fixed.” That he learned early on that love could be conditional, that molding himself to be someone less different was how he could survive. And he chose to still be himself, even though it wasn't as safe, because it felt right.

So he's the glue.

For them.

He is the glue in a group that was never meant to hold together, the one smoothing edges, filling gaps, absorbing the strain before anything can snap.

And the worst part?

No one really notices when the glue starts to crack.