Kali

pairing: paige bueckers x soraya mensima (oc)

synopsis: rookie paige bueckers enters the league with confidence, charm, and a bad habit of gravitating toward things she shouldn’t want— like soraya mensima, the wings’ respected star and reluctant heartbreaker. soraya’s been here longer, knows better, and refuses to let lines blur... even as paige keeps rewriting them with every smile.

(content) warnings: some angst. religious themes. implied homophobia. mommy issues lol. paige not being a complete simp for once. domestic-ish soraya if u squint.

word count: 8900

note: hey… it’s been so long and i had to take a much needed break. not only for my mental health but also to figure out how i want this series to go and what exactly i want to focus on. but anyway, to anyone that’s been patiently waiting and still wants to read—i appreciate yall more than words can say. any kind of feedback and reblogs is very appreciated and i hope u guys are satisfied with this chapter.

masterlist

♯┆taglist (open) .ᐟ ★ @sheturnpesbian @brenwritesss @ekisokay @sierrale8ne @ohmybueckers @yailtsv @lilpaigeyherbo @prettygirl-gabi @mariahthealchemist @avvwritesstufff @vintagebueckers @naeswrrldd @thaatdigitaldiary @xoxosierralane @kehlaniscript

Four days had passed since Soraya’s birthday party. Four days since the rooftop, since the city lights and the wind and that kiss that felt like it rearranged something deep in Paige’s chest. Four days since everything had shifted again, quietly, without warning, as it always seemed to do between them.

They hadn’t talked about it. They never did. Soraya avoided the subject with practiced ease, slipping past it as if words would only complicate something fragile. Paige, on the other hand, felt the questions crowding the back of her throat but never let them out. She had learned, over time, that pressing too hard only made Soraya retreat. And this time, strangely enough, it felt like she didn’t need to ask.

Soraya was different now. Softer in ways Paige hadn’t realized she’d been missing. She smiled more, laughed easier, and greeted Paige every morning on the way to practice with a warmth that lingered long after they parted. Sometimes it was just a smile and a quiet “hey,” but more often it was a hug, arms slipping around Paige’s shoulders like it was the most natural thing in the world. Everytime, Paige felt it settle in her chest, that slow, steady warmth she didn’t quite know what to do with.

She invited Paige over more often, even after she had mostly recovered from the seizure and no longer needed the company in the same way. They spent evenings curled up on the couch, watching movies neither of them paid full attention to, or cooking together in comfortable silence. Soraya sat closer than she used to, close enough that their legs brushed, close enough that Paige could feel her presence without looking. It felt intentional, even if nothing was ever said out loud.

The whole thing left Paige quietly disoriented. She didn’t dare question it, didn’t dare put words to it, too afraid that naming whatever this was would break the spell. She had learned that some things only survived if left unspoken.

Still, she noticed everything. The way Soraya shifted closer without thinking, the way she casually draped her legs over Paige’s on the couch like it had always been that way. The way she avoided making spicy food or anything Paige didn’t like, quietly adjusting without comment. In all honesty, Soraya was acting like a girlfriend. Not an easy one, not an openly affectionate one, but a distant, careful, complicated version of one nonetheless.

Today was game day against the Connecticut Sun. In Connecticut. In the one arena Paige had never lost in, a fact her teammates loved to bring up and she pretended not to care about, even though it sat proudly in the back of her mind.

And Soraya was coming with them.

Her doctor had finally cleared her to fly again, approving her attendance at her first game since the seizure. It would also be her first flight since. Paige pretended not to worry, but she kept a close eye on her the entire time, watching for any sign of discomfort, any flicker of hesitation.

To Paige’s surprise, Soraya was excited. Genuinely so. She talked about the arena, about sitting on the bench and feeling the energy of the crowd instead of watching from a screen. She wanted to hear the noise, feel it vibrate through her chest, observe the game from angles film could never capture. She wanted to study everything, the spacing, the communication, the moments between plays that never made it onto highlight reels.

More than anything, though, she was excited to support her team. To be there in person, to feel present again after weeks of distance and recovery. And if she was honest with herself, there was one player in particular she hadn’t been able to stop thinking about. A blonde rookie with calm eyes and steady hands, someone who made her feel grounded just by being near.

Paige felt it too. The quiet pull of knowing Soraya would be watching, that she would be there, just a few feet away, seeing everything. It made her chest tighten with something close to nerves, close to pride. As they boarded the plane and later stepped into the arena, Paige couldn’t shake the feeling that something bad was going to happen.

There were only ten minutes left until tip off. The court was alive with movement as the team ran through final warmups, sneakers squeaking against polished hardwood, balls echoing sharply as they bounced and snapped into passing drills. The arena buzzed with noise, a low constant hum that grew louder with every passing minute. On the bench, Soraya sat between Maddy and Ty, all three of them in regular clothes, watching as the last moments before the game slipped away.

Soraya stood out effortlessly. She wore a light, dusty teal strapless corset that hugged her frame, paired with baggy gray jeans that sat low on her hips, relaxed and unbothered. On her feet were light teal Nike Dunk Lows that matched the top just enough to look intentional without trying too hard. The outfit was simple but striking, the kind of look that felt natural on her, as if she hadn’t overthought it at all.

She’d taken the braids out of her hair the day prior, realizing they only worsened her headaches when she wore them too long. Now her natural curls framed her face, voluminous and soft, brushing just past her shoulders. Sitting there on the bench, posture relaxed but eyes alert, she looked effortlessly put together.

Paige couldn’t stop herself from stealing glances in her direction. From the court, in between stretches and shots, her eyes kept drifting back to the bench, landing on Soraya again and again. There was something about seeing her there, dressed like that, present and watching, that made Paige’s chest tighten. A small, irrational part of her almost wanted to believe Soraya had done it for her, at least a little bit.

Later, in the locker room, Soraya had leaned back against the cool wall, arms crossed loosely over her chest as she watched her teammates get dressed and prepare. The space was filled with familiar chaos, voices overlapping, lockers slamming shut, laughter cutting through the tension that always came before a game. Her eyes wandered naturally, inevitably, until they landed on Paige.

She watched as Paige pulled her jersey over her head, muscles flexing as the fabric slid down over her shoulders, briefly revealing the white Nike sports bra and the expanse of her stomach before it disappeared beneath the uniform. This time, Soraya didn’t look away. She didn’t pretend she hadn’t been watching. And when Paige glanced up and caught her, their eyes locked.

For a split second, neither of them moved. Then the corners of Soraya’s mouth twitched, the smallest hint of a smile betraying her. Around them, the rest of the team remained completely oblivious, too wrapped up in their own routines to notice the quiet exchange happening just out of view.

Soon enough, it was time to head out. The team filed out of the locker room, the energy shifting as focus settled in. Soraya trailed behind, unhurried, letting the space stretch between herself and the others. Paige was almost at the back as well, close enough that Soraya didn’t have to raise her voice.

“Psst,” she whistled softly, just loud enough for Paige to hear.

Paige turned, slowing to a stop as she looked back. The hallway lights cast soft shadows, and for a moment it felt like the rest of the world had moved ahead without them. She waited as Soraya caught up, her expression open, curious, like she was bracing for something important.

“What’s up?” Paige asked quietly.

Soraya smiled, small and almost shy, shrugging her shoulders as if it were nothing at all. She looked at Paige properly then, really took her in. The familiar mix of nerves and excitement was written all over her face, the same look she wore before every game, but intensified tonight. Soraya could tell this one meant something to her.

“I just wanted to wish you luck,” she said softly. “You’re gonna be great.”

Her hand lifted, settling on Paige’s upper arm, warm and grounding. Soraya leaned in, close enough that Paige could smell her perfume, and pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek. It was quick, unassuming, but it sent heat rushing straight to Paige’s face.

Before Paige could say anything, Soraya pulled back and walked ahead, disappearing out of the tunnel and back toward the bench. Paige stood there for half a second longer, stunned, cheeks flushed as she bit down on the smile threatening to give her away before jogging back onto the court.

By the time tip off began, Soraya was seated again, elbows resting on her knees as she leaned forward, eyes locked on the action. The noise of the crowd surged, rising and falling with every possession. She watched intently, tracking movement, spacing, and momentum, fully present in a way she hadn’t been in weeks.

The first quarter went well. By the time the buzzer sounded, the Wings were up by six, and the Sun were visibly struggling to match their pace. Soraya felt a quiet sense of satisfaction settle in her chest as she clapped along with the rest of the bench.

Paige was playing well. More than that, she was leading. When Arike seemed a step behind, Paige stepped up, directing traffic, keeping the energy steady. Soraya noticed it immediately. She knew Arike struggled with the shift in dynamics. It wasn’t personal. It never was. She just wasn’t used to sharing the floor with another player who commanded that kind of presence.

Soraya watched Paige closely as the quarter ended, pride mixing with something warmer, something harder to name. Sitting there on the bench, surrounded by noise and motion, she couldn’t stop thinking about how much had changed in such a short amount of time.

And how much more still felt inevitable.

The second quarter blurred together in a way Paige hated, the game still loud and fast even as she was waved toward the bench for a breather. Her chest was rising and falling hard, sweat cooling on her skin as she dropped down into her seat, muscles still buzzing with unfinished energy. She didn’t look to her right right away. She never did. Like if she pretended Soraya wasn’t there, the pull wouldn’t be so immediate and stupidly strong.

Soraya sat two seats down, tucked beside Maddy, posture relaxed in a way that felt intentional. She was dressed out, warmups neat, curls pulled back but still soft around her face, eyes trained on the court like she was memorizing every possession. Paige fixed her gaze forward, jaw tight, forcing herself to track the ball instead of the curve of Soraya’s shoulder in her peripheral. It felt ridiculous how aware she was, like her body had already turned even if her head refused to.

Paige never understood why Soraya did this to her. It wasn’t just attraction, though that alone would have been bad enough. It was the way her presence shrank Paige down into something younger, something awkward and hopeful, like she was twelve again and desperate not to say the wrong thing in front of her crush. She could handle pressure, crowds, expectations, defenders in her face. She could not, apparently, handle sitting next to Soraya without feeling like her insides were doing laps.

“You having fun out there without me?”

Soraya’s voice cut through the noise without effort, light and teasing but deceptively calm. She didn’t even look over when she said it, eyes still on the game as if the comment hadn’t been aimed directly at Paige’s chest. Paige turned then, finally, amusement tugging at her mouth as she raised a brow, grateful for the easy opening.

“Well, yeah,” she said, tone playful, almost smug. “It ain’t obvious? Look at the way we’re dominating.”

Even as the words left her mouth, Paige was painfully aware of the scoreboard glowing five points in the wrong direction. Soraya’s quiet chuckle made her chest loosen anyway, the sound warm and familiar in a way that felt unfair. When Soraya finally turned to look at her, it was with that knowing expression, half smile, eyes sharp with humor.

“Mhm,” Soraya said, nodding like she was indulging a child. “I know y’miss me sooo much. No one feeds you assists like I do, right?”

It shouldn’t have landed the way it did. The words were harmless, teasing, almost cocky, but something in Soraya’s tone slid under Paige’s skin and stayed there. Paige felt it immediately, that flip low in her stomach, the warmth spreading before she could stop it. The way Soraya looked at her now, open and amused, like she wasn’t guarding herself quite as tightly, made Paige forget for a second where they were.

“I do, actually,” Paige said, and she hated how soft her voice came out, how honest. A small smile pulled at her lips before she could stop it, unguarded and a little shy.

Soraya hesitated, just barely, like she’d been caught off balance. Then her smile bloomed fully, slow and real, and this time she didn’t try to rein it in. She let it sit between them, unhidden, and Paige felt something in her chest twist at the sight.

Her eyes dropped then, almost on instinct, drawn to Soraya’s hands resting in her lap. Paige had noticed them earlier, the nails catching the light every time Soraya moved, polished and intentional. She leaned slightly closer without thinking about it, curiosity softening her features.

“Y’got a new set?” she asked.

Soraya nodded, clearly pleased, glancing down at her nails like she already knew the answer would impress. They matched her outfit perfectly, clean but detailed, every little design deliberate. Paige didn’t wait for permission. She opened her own hand, palm up, holding it out between them.

“Lemme see.”

Soraya looked at her for a beat, searching her face, before placing her palm against Paige’s. The contact sent a quiet jolt through Paige, warmth meeting warmth, Soraya’s skin soft against her own. Paige’s fingers curled gently around her hand, careful and reverent, turning it slowly to catch the light at different angles.

She studied every nail like it mattered, like this was the most important thing in the room. Her thumb brushed lightly against Soraya’s knuckles as she adjusted her grip, movements unhurried, intimate without trying to be. Paige brought Soraya’s hand a little closer, squinting at the small design on her ring finger, so focused she forgot herself.

“They’re fire,” she murmured, voice low. “I fuck with them.”

For half a second, Soraya’s hand hovered dangerously close to Paige’s lips, close enough that Paige became acutely aware of the space between them. Then she gently lowered it, slowly releasing her grip like she didn’t want to startle her. Soraya drew her hand back to her lap, that soft smile still there, lingering.

“Thanks,” Soraya smiled. “Gon’ have to take them off soon.”

Paige frowned immediately, brows knitting together as she looked at her. “Why?”

“Too long to play with,” Soraya replied with a shrug, casual but purposeful. “I should be back on the court for the game against Seattle.”

Paige’s reaction was instant. Her eyes widened, excitement lighting her face as she leaned in slightly, unable to hide it. “You deadass?”

The thought of Soraya back on the floor, moving freely again, doing what she loved, made something swell in Paige’s chest. Some of it was selfish, she knew that, the thrill of their chemistry, the way Soraya made the game feel easier and brighter. But more than that, she wanted Soraya whole again, wanted to see that restless edge fade from her eyes.

Soraya just nodded, smiling, and for a moment Paige forgot about the score, the crowd, the game waiting for her to check back in. All she could think about was how good it would feel to see Soraya where she belonged again, and how terrifying it was how much that mattered to her.

Halftime felt shorter than it ever should, the narrow guest locker room buzzing with half caught breaths and the low hum of bodies still riding adrenaline. Paige stood near the whiteboard, hands on her hips at first before she started pacing, eyes sharp and focused as she took in every face around her. Sweat still clung to her skin, jersey tugged loose at the collar, but her voice was steady when she spoke, cutting cleanly through the room.

“We’re up, yeah,” Paige said, nodding once toward the scoreboard taped to the wall like it mattered. “But we’re letting them get comfortable. They’re walking into the paint like it’s free, and we’re hesitating on the kickouts.” She pointed toward the board, tapping it with her knuckle. “First three minutes, we set the tone. Push the pace, trust the pass, and stop second guessing yourselves so much. If you get a good open shot, take it. You don’t? Pass it to me.?You don’t trust yourself at all? Go home.”

A few heads nodded, murmurs of agreement rippling through the room. Paige softened just a touch then, her voice lowering, more encouraging than commanding. “We’re playing good basketball today. We just gotta play it all the way through. For each other.”

Soraya watched from her seat, arms folded loosely, a faint smile tugging at her mouth. Paige barely noticed the way she’d naturally slipped into that role, speaking like a vet, like a coach, like someone who had been here for years instead of months. It came easily to her, that leadership, that quiet authority. Soraya liked seeing her like this, liked the confidence, the way Paige carried herself like she belonged in every room she stepped into.

With about five minutes left in halftime, after the plays for the second half had been run through and the room settled into quieter conversations, Paige’s focus finally wavered. Her eyes drifted, almost involuntarily, until they found Soraya again. It wasn’t like there was much space for them to get lost in anyway, the locker room cramped and close, every movement noticeable.

Soraya sat next to Luisa now, leaning slightly toward her as they talked, shoulders relaxed in a way Paige rarely saw lately. Whatever they were saying wasn’t meant for anyone else, voices low, fluid, moving in a rhythm Paige couldn’t follow even if she tried. She didn’t need to understand it to know it was German. The cadence alone gave it away, the consonants sharper, the vowels rounded in a way that felt deliberate.

Luisa chuckled softly at something Soraya said, her head tilting as Soraya spoke again, this time with a hint of something sharper in her accent. Paige watched closely, fascinated despite herself. Soraya managed to smooth it out when she spoke English, but in German it slipped free, heavier and rougher. Paige had heard enough about Swiss German to know it was different, more compact and guttural, almost like a cross between Bavarian german and Dutch. It sounded intimate, like something you only shared with people who really knew you.

Something unfamiliar tightened in Paige’s chest as she watched them. Admiration came first, warm and genuine. Soraya looked so at ease, so herself, hands moving slightly as she talked, eyes bright in a way Paige missed seeing directed at her. Then the jealousy crept in, quiet and sharp, not toward Luisa specifically but toward the distance she represented.

Paige wished she understood. Not just the words, but what it felt like to live inside Soraya’s language like that. She wished she could sit beside her and respond naturally, switch into something that belonged fully to Soraya’s world. German, Swiss German, Arabic, Darija. Paige didn’t care which one. She would learn any of them if it meant closing that invisible gap, if it meant Soraya looking at her like that.

She exhaled slowly, dragging her gaze away before she could stare too long. The coach called out for attention again, signaling the final minute of halftime, and Paige straightened instinctively. She clapped her hands once, voice rising again as she turned back to the team.

“Alright,” she said, tone firm but encouraging. “Let’s lock in. This is our game to take. Play smart, play together, and trust what we’ve been building.” Her eyes flicked briefly toward Soraya and back to the others as she added, quieter but intentional, “We got this.”

As the team began to stand and move toward the tunnel, Paige grabbed her towel, heart still doing something strange in her chest. She told herself to focus, to stay present, but the sound of Soraya’s laughter in a language she couldn’t understand lingered with her long after the buzzer called them back to the court.

The game had ended louder than it started.

A double digit win, one of their cleanest so far, and the kind that sat heavy in the best way. It wasn’t just relief, it was proof. Everything clicking at once. And for Paige, it showed, even if she didn’t say it out loud. There was something steadier about her after the final buzzer, something controlled but lighter, like she’d checked a box off a list she’d been carrying for a while.

The locker room had been chaos.

Music blasted through a speaker shoved into someone’s tiny locker, bass echoing off the walls while laughter overlapped in every direction. Water bottles were cracked open and immediately turned into weapons, cold sprays cutting through the heat of the room followed by loud protests and even louder retaliation. It was messy, loud, alive.

Soraya had stayed just outside of it, her head still keeping her from fully joining in, but she wasn’t distant. Not really. Her gaze drifted, quieter, taking everything in like she was trying to catch up on moments she’d missed.

And then it landed on Paige.

It lingered.

The black snapback sat backwards on her head, slightly off center like she hadn’t bothered fixing it after the game. Damp strands of blonde hair curled faintly at her temples. The small diamond hoops lining her lobes and helix caught the light every time she moved, flashing in a way that pulled attention without trying. Her skin still carried that post game glow, warm and flushed, like the adrenaline hadn’t fully settled yet.

Soraya’s eyes dipped before she could stop them.

Her shirt clung to her frame, outlining muscle that hadn’t been there like that before, or maybe Soraya just hadn’t let herself notice it. It was sharper now, more defined. Intentional.

She shifted where she sat, subtle but deliberate.

Her thighs pressed together for a second, grounding herself, jaw tightening just enough to pull her gaze away. She looked somewhere else, anywhere else, like she could pretend she hadn’t just been staring.

She didn’t question it. Didn’t unpack it.

She just moved on.

It took over half an hour for the team to finally load onto the bus. The energy softened as it went, conversations splitting into smaller groups, the chaos from earlier settling into something easier. The injured players had gone ahead, giving them first pick of seats before the rest followed not too far behind.

Soraya had taken a window seat without much thought, earbuds in, her world narrowing down to her phone. She scrolled lazily, thumb flicking upward, a quiet chuckle slipping out before she could stop it. Something on her timeline had caught her just right.

She didn’t notice Paige at first.

Not until the seat beside her dipped, the presence sudden and close, and then one of her earbuds was gone.

“Watcha laughing at?” Paige’s voice slipped straight into her ear, warm and teasing, close enough to make Soraya flinch slightly. “Didn’t know you could do that.”

Soraya’s head snapped toward her, eyes narrowing immediately. There was a beat where she just stared, processing the audacity.

“Strike one,” she started, pulling her other earbud out as she turned fully toward her. Her face was set, serious, but there was something faintly playful underneath it. “You snuck up on me.”

A finger lifted.

“Strike two: you’re being a dickhead.”

Another.

“And strike three,” she continued, leaning in just a little, voice lowering, “not only did you touch me without permission, but you touched my personal shit.”

Her gaze locked onto Paige’s. “You got a death wish or something?”

Paige let out a quiet laugh, soft and genuine, her shoulders dipping slightly with it. She didn’t rush to respond, just handed the earbud back, her fingers brushing Soraya’s palm for a second longer than necessary.

When her laughter faded, she didn’t look away.

Her gaze stayed, steady in a way that felt less like teasing and more like she was actually seeing her. Taking her in without rushing it.

“I wouldn’t mind dying by your hands,” she said, shrugging lightly. Casual. Almost too easy.

But there was a pause after, small and nearly unnoticeable, like she was aware of how it sounded the second it left her mouth.

Soraya stilled.

For a moment, she didn’t react the way she usually would. No immediate comeback, no eye roll. The words sat somewhere unfamiliar, catching her off guard in a way she didn’t have a name for.

A month ago, she would’ve brushed it off.

Now, she felt it.

The warmth crept up slower this time, settling into her cheeks before she could stop it. A smile tugged at her mouth, small and stubborn, like it didn’t care that she hadn’t invited it.

“You’re stupid,” she muttered, quieter than intended.

Paige’s lips curved slightly, but her eyes flicked away for a brief second before returning, like she needed that moment to reset. “Sometimes.”

The space between them shifted after that.

The bus filled around them slowly, voices layering over each other, bags dropping, someone laughing too loud a few rows back. But it all felt distant, like it wasn’t pressing in on them the same way.

Paige leaned back in her seat, turning just enough that her shoulder brushed against Soraya’s. It was light, almost nothing, but she didn’t move away. Her hand came up briefly, adjusting the edge of her hat, then the chain at her neck, small movements that felt more like something to do than something she needed to fix.

“You were laughing hard,” she said after a moment, quieter now. “I haven’t seen you do that in a minute.”

Soraya glanced down at her phone again, though she wasn’t really looking at it anymore. “It wasn’t even that funny,” she said, brushing it off.

Paige’s knee shifted then, resting lightly against Soraya’s. This time it felt more intentional. Grounded.

“Still,” she said. “looked good on you.”

Soraya turned her head.

Really looked at her this time.

There was something different in Paige’s expression now. Not the easy confidence she usually carried, not the teasing edge. It was softer, but more controlled too, like she’d already decided how much of herself she was willing to show in that moment.

Soraya’s expression cracked just slightly in response.

“You’re so corny,” she said, but the words didn’t carry weight.

Paige shrugged, gaze steady but not pushing. “Yeah,” she admitted. “Only for you, though.”

The words settled, quieter than before, but heavier.

Soraya held her gaze for a second too long before looking away, shaking her head faintly like she could brush it off. But she didn’t move her leg. Didn’t create space.

She just slid her earbud back in.

The music never started.

She sat there instead, shoulder pressed lightly against Paige’s, aware of every small point of contact, every quiet second stretching between them.

And next to her, Paige didn’t say anything else.

She just stayed there, close but not closing the distance any further, like she was holding herself at a line only she could see.

The hotel room was too quiet.

Soraya lay stretched across the bed in nothing but her pyjama pants and a thin tank top, one leg bent at the knee while the other rested flat against the sheets. The ceiling above her felt endless, blank in a way that made time drag. The TV played something she wasn’t watching, light flickering across the walls without meaning, while her phone sat useless in her hand, every app opened and closed within seconds. Nothing stuck. Nothing filled the space.

It was a strange kind of boredom, the kind that didn’t come from having nothing to do, but from not wanting to do anything at all. Her body still felt like it was catching up to itself, her mind even slower. For the first time in a while, there was no noise around her. No practice, no games, no teammates filling in the silence. No Paige. No Jiggy. Just her.

And she hated it.

Her phone rang.

Not the usual soft chime she kept for everything else, but that one specific app. Loud. Obnoxious. Impossible to ignore. The sound alone made something in her chest drop instantly, like her body recognized it before her brain had time to catch up.

She didn’t need to look at the screen.

Her grip tightened slightly around the phone, thumb hovering for just a second too long before she swiped to answer. There was a faint tremble there, small enough that no one else would notice, but she felt it. Her stomach flipped uneasily, turning over itself as she brought the phone to her ear, forcing in a slow breath before she spoke.

“Hi, mama. How are you?”

The words came out in Arabic, softer than anything else she spoke these days. The dialect sat differently on her tongue, familiar in a way that felt almost foreign now. She only used it with a select few people, voices she heard maybe once or twice a year, usually tied to holidays and obligations rather than want. Even then, it never stayed for long. She slipped in and out of it like a borrowed version of herself.

“I would be a lot better if my daughter called me more.”

Nabila’s voice came through the line just as Soraya remembered it. Distant, flat, carrying a kind of practiced disappointment that never quite changed. It wasn’t loud, not aggressive, but it landed all the same. It always did.

Soraya closed her eyes briefly, pressing her head further into the pillow. “I’m sorry. It’s been a very busy couple months, especially with everything going on.”

The excuse came easily. It always did. She had rehearsed versions of it her entire life, reshaping it depending on the situation, softening it just enough to sound respectful, never enough to sound honest.

“You have a seizure, and I have to find out through the internet,” her mother continued, the words sharper now, though there was something else underneath them this time. Something unfamiliar. “And then you won’t even pick up my calls? What’s been going on with you?”

That warmth, if it could even be called that, unsettled her more than the coldness ever did.

Soraya pushed herself up into a sitting position, one hand coming up to rub at her forehead, fingers dragging slowly across her skin like she could press the tension out. She took another breath, deeper this time, steadying herself the way she always tried to.

“I’ve just been focused on recovery, mama,” she said. “It was really rough at first, so I didn’t wanna burden you or anyone else.”

The lie sat heavy in her chest the moment it left her mouth. Not because it was entirely untrue, but because it wasn’t the full truth. It never was. Explaining herself had always felt like a losing battle, and somewhere along the way, she had stopped trying to be fully understood.

On the other end, Nabila sighed. It was long, weighted, like there were a hundred things she wanted to say but didn’t have the patience to sort through them.

“You’re just wasting your life away playing this sport,” she said finally. “When are you going to mature and realize that you can be doing better things? Use your degrees. Meet a nice man. Start a family.”

There it was.

It settled over Soraya like something inevitable, something she had been bracing for from the moment the call started. Her stomach turned, nausea creeping in slow and steady, familiar in the worst way. It wasn’t even the words themselves anymore. It was the repetition. The certainty. The way it erased everything she had built for herself as if it had never mattered.

She had heard this speech so many times she could recite it before it was finished.

“I’m not going to stop playing basketball, mama,” she said, her voice quieter than she wanted it to be. “We already talked about this. It’s not a phase. None of it is.”

Even as she said it, it felt wrong. Like she was doing something she wasn’t supposed to. Like standing her ground came with consequences she had been taught to expect long before she understood why.

“I just don’t understand,” her mother replied. “You move away, you start dressing provocatively, you barely talk to me anymore. You rarely visit. And now we’re back to this nonsense.”

“It’s not.”

The words came out sharper this time, cutting through before she could soften them. Soraya straightened slightly, something in her chest tightening, pushing past the hesitation that usually held her back.

“It’s not nonsense,” she continued, her voice steadier now. “You said you wanted to be in my life, but every time we talk, you just remind me of why I moved so far away. I’m sorry that you can’t handle the way I live my life or who I am, but let’s just stop this back and forth.”

Her vision blurred slightly as the sting hit the bridge of her nose. Tears gathered before she could stop them, her throat tightening as she clenched her jaw, forcing herself to stay composed. She hated this part. Hated how quickly it reduced her to something small, something she thought she had outgrown.

Crying felt useless. Weak. It never fixed anything.

On the other end, Nabila sighed again. Quieter this time. “Alright. I just wanted to check up on you. I’m glad you’re doing better. We’ll talk soon.”

And just like that, it was over.

The line went dead, and the silence that followed felt heavier than before.

Soraya lowered the phone slowly, staring at the darkened screen for a moment before letting it fall onto the bed beside her. The room felt different now. Smaller. Like the air had shifted in a way she couldn’t undo.

Her mother had always been like that.

Distant in ways that didn’t make sense to anyone outside of it. Kind, even warm, with others. Patient and generous. But when it came to her own daughter, something never translated. Emotion turned into control. Concern into criticism. Love into something that felt conditional, structured, and hard to reach.

Soraya had grown up learning rules before she ever learned comfort.

Make your bed. Shower on your own. Dress modestly. Sit properly. Respect your elders. Get good grades. Never tell anyone about your problems. Keep it to yourself. Fear God. Follow tradition. Be grateful. Don’t sleep in. Don’t talk back. Don’t complain. Don’t stay out too late. Don’t talk to boys. Don’t dishonour the family. Don’t dance out of line. Don’t draw attention. Don’t be difficult.

The expectations had come early, long before she understood where they came from. Religion had been something taught through fear before faith, through consequence before meaning. But Soraya knew that religion itself had never been the problem. It had always been the people that practiced it incorrectly. Culture had been something enforced before it was explained. It wrapped around her identity so tightly that even now, miles away, living a life that looked nothing like the one she was raised for, she still felt it.

In the way guilt crept in at the smallest things.

In the way defiance still felt like wrongdoing.

In the way her mother’s voice could pull her back into that version of herself within seconds.

She had grown up in houses that never quite felt like home. Surrounded by family, by noise, by people who came and went in numbers too large to keep track of—yet somehow still alone in the ways that mattered. Cousins she clung to for comfort, for laughter, for something softer, but nothing ever stayed long enough to fill what was missing.

Everything had always been temporary.

And maybe that was where it started.

Maybe that was why she learned not to rely on anyone too much. Why she kept people at a distance before they had the chance to leave or disappoint. Why connection felt like something fragile, something that came with expectations she didn’t know how to meet.

Soraya leaned back against the headboard, bringing her knees up slightly, arms wrapping loosely around them. The room was quiet again, but it wasn’t the same kind of quiet as before.

This one sat heavier.

And no matter how far she’d gone, how much she’d built for herself, it still followed.

Soraya only sat there, unmoving, like something inside her had come loose.

A faint chill crept over her skin, raising goosebumps along her arms as if the temperature in the room had dropped without warning. She knew better. It wasn’t the air. It was her nerves, settling in deep and refusing to let go. The silence pressed in on her from all sides, thick and suffocating, but the ticking of the clock cut through it sharper than anything else. Each second felt deliberate. Loud. Almost taunting.

Her shoulders remained tense, pulled tightly like she was bracing for something that had already passed. Her mind felt fogged ovrr , thoughts moving too fast and not at all at the same time.

She exhaled slowly and let herself fall back against the mattress, staring up at the ceiling again. Maybe if she just closed her eyes. Maybe if she forced it, sleep had to come eventually.

It didn’t.

She shifted onto her side. Then onto her stomach. Then onto her back again, pulling the blanket up before kicking it off seconds later. Every position felt wrong. Too warm. Too exposed. Too still. Her mind refused to quiet, looping back to things she didn’t want to sit with, didn’t want to pick apart.

And more than anything, she didn’t want to be alone with it.

Her jaw tightened slightly at the thought.

She didn’t want to be a bother. Didn’t want to be that person, the one who couldn’t handle being by herself for a single night. Usually, she was fine. More than fine. She had built herself on that exact thing, on independence, on not needing anyone when things got heavy.

That’s what made this worse.

It took another twenty minutes of going back and forth with herself, of convincing herself to stay put and then immediately wanting to do the opposite, before she finally pushed the blanket off and sat up. The decision didn’t feel solid. It felt rushed, almost accidental, like if she thought about it for even a second longer, she’d talk herself out of it again.

She slipped her feet into the soft cat house shoes she’d brought with her, barely glancing down as she stood. The floor felt too quiet under her steps as she crossed the room and opened the door, the hallway outside dimly lit and empty.

Each step down the hall felt heavier than it should have.

When she stopped in front of the door, she hesitated.

Her hand hovered near it, fingers flexing slightly before dropping back to her side. This was stupid. Completely stupid. She was a grown woman, fully capable of sitting in her own thoughts without spiraling. She’d been doing it her entire life. This wasn’t new. This wasn’t something she needed saving from.

She turned away.

Took one step. Then another.

And stopped.

Her shoulders rose as she inhaled deeply, holding it for a second before letting it out slowly. The tension didn’t leave, but it loosened just enough for her to turn back around.

Before she could overthink it again, she stepped up to the door and knocked. Three quick taps, firm enough to be heard, rushed enough that she couldn’t pull back midway.

She barely had time to reconsider.

One second.

Two.

Three.

By the seventh, the handle turned.

The door opened slowly, and Paige came into view piece by piece. First the edge of her shoulder, then her frame, then all of her as she pulled it wider. Her hair was down, falling loose around her face in a way Soraya wasn’t used to seeing this late at night. A pair of glasses rested on her nose, slightly slipping down like she hadn’t adjusted them in a while. She was dressed simply, loose sweatpants hanging low on her hips and an old UConn shirt that looked worn in the best way.

She looked softer. Less put together, but not in a careless way. She just looked comfortable.

“Hey.”

Her voice was quiet, a little rough around the edges, like she hadn’t spoken in a while. There was a hint of surprise there too, subtle but present, her brows lifting slightly as her eyes settled on Soraya.

Soraya gave a small, almost awkward smile, shifting her weight onto one leg. “Hi… were you sleeping?”

Paige let out a quiet chuckle, quick and low, her head tilting just slightly as one of her brows raised higher. “Do I look like I was sleeping?”

There was something easy in her tone, something that didn’t make Soraya feel out of place for standing there.

Soraya huffed softly, glancing past her into the room for a second before looking back. “I don’t know. You’ve been working hard. Figured you might’ve actually gone to bed at a reasonable time for once.”

“Relax,” Paige replied, stepping back slightly and pulling the door open wider. “I was just watching something.”

She didn’t make it a big deal. Didn’t ask why Soraya was there, didn’t hesitate, didn’t overthink it out loud. She just moved, creating space like it was the most natural thing in the world.

Soraya lingered for half a second longer, then stepped inside.

The room looked lived in already. The TV was on low, some random show playing in the background, while Paige’s bag sat open near the corner. A pair of sneakers had been kicked off near the bed, slightly out of place.

The door clicked shut behind her.

For a moment, Soraya just stood there, taking it in without really meaning to. The quiet in here felt different than the quiet in her own room. Less suffocating and easier to breathe in.

Paige moved past her, grabbing the remote off the bed and lowering the volume before tossing it aside again. “You look bored,” she said, glancing back at her.

Soraya scoffed lightly, crossing her arms before letting them fall again just as quickly. “I was dying in there. Thought I’d come bother you instead.”

Paige’s lips curved slightly, something amused flickering across her face as she sat back down on the bed, leaning against the headboard. “Good choice.”

There was no hesitation in it. No reluctance.

Just space.

Soraya let out a quiet breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding and moved further into the room, settling onto the edge of the other side of the bed. It wasn’t tense, not the way it could’ve been. It felt normal. Easy in a way that didn’t demand anything from her.

“Watchin’ something good?” she asked, nodding toward the TV.

Paige shrugged, reaching for a pillow and tossing it lightly in Soraya’s direction. “It was A’ight. You can judge for yourself.”

Soraya caught it easily, adjusting it behind her back as she leaned into it. “My standards are high, just so y’know.”

“Yeah?” Paige glanced at her, a hint of a smile still there. “Ima keep that in mind.”

The conversation settled into something light after that. Easy back and forth, small comments about whatever was playing, half jokes that didn’t need to land perfectly to be understood. At some point, Soraya laughed, quieter than earlier but real enough to linger, and Paige glanced at her for just a second longer than necessary before looking back at the screen.

Time moved differently in here.

And for the first time that night, Soraya didn’t feel like she had to fight the silence.

The show played on, scenes shifting and dialogue filling the room, but Soraya wasn’t really watching.

Her gaze stayed fixed on the screen, following movement without meaning, colors blending together in a way that didn’t quite register. Her fingers had found her nails again, absentmindedly picking and smoothing over the edges like she needed something small to focus on. It was a habit she didn’t notice until it was already happening, something quiet to ground herself when her thoughts started drifting too far.

She shifted slightly against the pillows, her shoulder brushing the fabric as she exhaled slowly. The room felt calm, steady, but her mind hadn’t quite caught up to it yet.

“Can I ask you somethin’?”

The words slipped out before she could stop them, soft but sudden enough to cut through the background noise of the TV. Her head turned just slightly toward Paige, not fully facing her, like she was trying to keep it casual.

Paige didn’t look over right away. She just hummed quietly in response, nodding once as her eyes stayed on the screen, waiting.

Soraya hesitated.

“How is your—” she started, then stopped herself, the words catching awkwardly in her throat. Her lips pressed together as she frowned faintly, like she was reconsidering the entire question mid sentence. It felt heavier out loud than it had in her head. Saying it required more intention than she was ready to admit.

By now, Paige had turned to look at her.

Soraya felt it immediately, the shift in attention, and it made her straighten just slightly where she sat. “Uh… do you like have a close relationship with your family?” she tried again, her tone more measured this time. “Like your parents. Siblings.”

She kept it light. Casual. Like it didn’t matter much either way. Their eyes met, and Paige held her gaze longer than expected.

There was nothing invasive about it, nothing sharp, but it lingered just enough to make Soraya aware of it. Like Paige was trying to understand where the question was coming from rather than just answering it. It made something in her chest tighten, subtle but immediate.

She looked back at the screen after a second, jaw shifting faintly.

“I’d say it’s pretty good,” Paige said eventually, her voice thoughtful, a little slower than usual. “i’on know.”

She adjusted her position, sitting up more properly against the headboard, one knee bending slightly as she settled in. The movement felt small, but there was something intentional about it, like she was grounding herself before continuing.

“My parents got divorced when I was young,” she went on. “mom remarried first and had my two oldest siblings, and then my dad remarried and had my youngest brother, Drew.”

A faint smile pulled at her lips then, softer, more instinctive.

“That’s my lil twin, actually,” she added, letting out a quiet breath of a laugh, the kind that came naturally when thinking about someone you loved. “I grew up mostly with my dad and my stepmom and her family. Even had an older stepbrother for a while. It was fun.”

She paused briefly, her gaze dropping somewhere unfocused before lifting again.

“I learned a lot of things I probably wouldn’t have if I had just grown up around white people.”

Soraya huffed softly under her breath, the corner of her mouth lifting as she glanced at her. “I already had a feeling you weren’t some regular ass minnesota white girl.”

She shifted slightly, settling more comfortably against the pillows. “White chocolate,” she added under her breath, a quiet snort following as the nickname resurfaced in her mind. She herself, had never called Paige that before.

Paige laughed, low and easy, the sound warm in the quiet room. It wasn’t loud, not exaggerated, just real enough to sit comfortably between them.

They fell into silence again after that, the kind that didn’t feel forced. The TV continued playing, voices filling the gaps, but neither of them paid much attention anymore.

Soraya’s brows furrowed slightly after a moment, something catching in what Paige had said.

“Wait,” she said, turning her head again. “Had?”

Paige nodded once, her expression barely shifting as she inhaled softly, a small, absent sniff following. It wasn’t emotional, just habitual, like she hadn’t thought much about it until now.

“Yeah,” she said. “They ended up getting divorced too.”

Soraya didn’t respond right away.

She just nodded slowly, taking it in, her gaze drifting back to the screen even though she wasn’t seeing it. The thought settled quietly in her chest. Once was already enough. Twice felt like something else entirely.

It made something shift in the way she looked at Paige, subtle but present.

“I’m sorry,” she said after a moment, her voice quieter now, softer in a way that didn’t lean into pity. It was simple, but it carried weight.

She cleared her throat lightly, adjusting her position again like she needed to reset the space between them. “You’re like… really religious and stuff, right?” she added, the question coming out a little more casually, like she was trying to redirect the conversation before it lingered too long in one place. “Is your family too?”

Paige’s expression shifted just slightly, not closed off, just thoughtful. There was a brief flicker of something curious there, like she was noticing the pattern in Soraya’s questions, even if she didn’t say it out loud.

“I wouldn’t consider myself very religious,” she said after a moment. “Not in the way people usually mean or expect”

Her voice stayed calm, steady, carrying a quiet certainty that didn’t feel rehearsed.

“I believe in God,” she continued. “And I feel like I have a strong relationship with Him. I read the Bible, I pray, I keep him in mind, but I don’t overanalyze every lil thing I do or don’t do based on what people say Christianity is supposed to look like.”

She glanced down briefly, then back up, her tone staying soft but grounded.

“I don’t think an all loving God would condemn someone just for loving the ‘wrong’ person,” she said. “Or for being who they are. I don’t think we’re created just to be put into boxes and told which parts of ourselves are acceptable. It ain’t all black n’ white to me.”

Her shoulders lifted slightly in a small shrug.

“Not my God, at least.”

The room felt quieter after that.

Soraya didn’t move. Didn’t interrupt. She just listened, more focused than she had been all night, like every word was settling somewhere deeper than she expected.

None of it surprised her. Not really. She had always known, in some way, that Paige saw things differently. But hearing it out loud, hearing the certainty in her voice, felt different.

“My family don’t really see it that way either,” Paige added, a little more lightly now, easing the weight of what she had just said. “At least not the ones that matter.”

Soraya blinked slowly, pulling herself out of her thoughts as she looked back at her.

A small smile tugged at her lips, softer than usual, quieter.

“That’s good,” she nodded.

“You always ask people questions like that?” Paige asked after a while, her voice quieter now, not teasing. Just curious.

Soraya huffed softly, eyes still on the screen. “Don’t get used to it.”

There was a pause.

Then, softer, almost like an afterthought, “You talk a lot when you want.”

Paige let out a quiet laugh at that, shaking her head slightly. “Only when it matters.”

Soraya didn’t respond to that.

But something in her expression shifted, small and almost unnoticeable, like she felt the weight of it even if she wasn’t ready to acknowledge it out loud.

The show played on.

Minutes passed without either of them keeping track. At some point, Soraya’s movements slowed, her fingers no longer picking at her nails, her breathing evening out as the exhaustion she’d been fighting finally started to settle in.

Her head dipped slightly to the side.

Then a little more.

Paige noticed before she could stop herself.

She glanced over, just briefly at first, then longer when she realized Soraya had gone quiet in a different way this time. Not distant. Not guarded.

Just tired.

Carefully, without making it obvious, Paige shifted again, just enough so Soraya’s head had somewhere softer to rest when it inevitably leaned further. She didn’t say anything about it. Didn’t look at her when it happened.

She just let it.

And when Soraya’s head finally settled against her shoulder, light and hesitant at first before fully giving in, Paige stayed still.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t make a joke.

Didn’t ruin it.

The TV continued playing quietly in the background, the room dim and warm around them, the city outside barely noticeable through the curtains.

And for once, neither of them felt the need to fill the silence.

It'll Always Be Her (Completed)

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8

Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12

Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15 Chapter 16

Chapter 17 Chapter 18 Chapter 19

Crossing the Line (Completed)

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8

Chapter 9 Chapter 10

Against the Tide (Completed)

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8

Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12

Chapter 13 Chapter 14

Flight 2136 (On Hold)

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Finding Peace in You (Completed)

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8

Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Epilogue

Soft Spot

Chapter 1 Chapter 2 Chapter 3 Chapter 4

Chapter 5 Chapter 6 Chapter 7 Chapter 8

Chapter 9 Chapter 10 Chapter 11 Chapter 12

Chapter 13 Chapter 14 Chapter 15

One Shots

Full Court Press

What You Heard

Art Installation

Gravity

Close Quarters

In Her Orbit

Part 2

Chasing Forever

Part 2

Part 3

Heat Check

The Best Medicine

Unspoken

Senior Night

Drunk Confession

Northbound

Part 2

Exit 42

CHAPTER FIVE ━━ Start of Something New

𖥔 ݁˖ ━ word count: 6.4K

𖥔 ݁˖ ━ warnings: honestly for once not really anything

𖥔 ݁˖ ━ links: my masterlist, where’s my love masterlist, ao3 link

𖥔 ݁˖ ━ author’s note: i’m sorry it’s been forever but we are Back and i hope this chapter was at least somewhat worth the wait!!! and it wasn't terribly depressing so we are getting somewhere yasss

WHEN AZZI WAS YOUNGER, she never liked thinking about the future. The concept of it always made her anxious—the unknown of it all, the way it stretched endlessly ahead of her like a blank page she was expected to fill. She didn't like that kind of pressure. She didn't like having to picture herself older, taller, somewhere different, someone different. She didn't like having to imagine what life would look like when it wasn't exactly the way it was right then. She was a kid who found comfort in familiarity, in the way her mom's laugh filled their house, in her dad's ridiculous jokes that weren't even funny but somehow always made her giggle until she cried. She liked the squeak of her sneakers on the court she grew up on, the pattern of her dad rebounding her shots, the quiet post-practice car rides with her mom, music low, air conditioning blasting. She liked the small certainties: the jersey that always smelled faintly of sweat, no matter how much she washed it, the chipped mug she drank hot chocolate from every winter, the feeling of control she got from being able to repeat a good day exactly the same way the next.

She liked the past even more. The past was safe. The past was known. She could revisit it whenever she wanted and nothing would change. She could replay a moment in her head—how the sun felt on her skin that one afternoon, what song was playing, what someone said to her right before she made a shot—and it would always be there, perfectly preserved. The future wasn't like that. The future was uncertain. It could disappoint her, if she wasn't careful. Hurt her.

So she learned, early, not to think too far ahead. She lived inside moments instead. The comfort of now and then. The safety of what she could see, touch, understand. It made her calm. Even as she got older, even when coaches and recruiters started asking about her five-year plans, her long-term goals, she still preferred not to think about any of it too deeply. She'd nod, smile, say something that sounded right. But, in truth, she didn't want to imagine herself years ahead. She just wanted to be where she was, surrounded by what she knew.

And now—now, she can't even do that.

It's been about a month since she woke up. A month of living inside a body that feels both familiar and foreign. A month of looking in the mirror and recognizing the shape of her face but not the girl behind the eyes. A month of everyone around her truing to remind her of who she is, what she's done, who she loves, while her brain sits blank and quiet.

The doctors say she's lucky. That her recovery has been remarkable, physically. The headaches are gone. Her coordination is fine. Her vision's good. Her balance is normal. She's able to run and shoot and play. They list these things like victories, like small little miracles, and Azzi nods, smiles, thanks them. Because that's what you're supposed to do when people tell you you're lucky to be alive.

But she doesn't feel lucky. Inside, she just feels empty, like that car accident emptied anything and everything out of her. Like she's been handed a life she's supposed to recognize, but it's written in a language she can't read or understand.

Her mom talks to her softly, patiently. Her dad cracks jokes, still. Her brothers have gotten past the hovering stage, back to mostly just shenanigans. She can tell they're trying not to treat her differently, but everything is different now. Every conversation has a hesitation at its edges, every shared glance between her parents feels like a secret they can't tell her. They speak about her life like it's a story she's supposed to remember, but she doesn't.

There are photos all over the house—her with her teammates, her holding trophies, her smiling with friends she knows but doesn't really know. Her bedroom is the worst, covered inch-by-inch in Paige. A photo of them on vacation on her nightstand, Paige's high school basketball magnet hung on Azzi's whiteboard, several photos of the two of them and some of just Paige by herself thumb-tacked to her bulletin board. Her parents tell her stories, fill in blanks. And Azzi nods, every time, trying to act like the pieces they're giving her fit. But they don't. They just float around in her head, disconnected, meaningless.

She's tried. She's tried everything. Sitting quietly with her eyes closed, hoping something will come rushing back. Listening to songs that her mom says she used to play all the time. Looking through her camera roll, feeling sick as she does so. Nothing sparks anything. Nothing.

It's not even that she doesn't remember—it's that she doesn't feel. Nothing feels like hers—not her relationships, not her trophies, not even her fucking clothes.

She's tired of people telling her it'll come back with time. That her brain is healing. That memory is complicated. That she just has to be patient. She's been patient. She's tired of it; tired of waiting for something she's not even sure exists anymore.

At first, she had hope. A naive, stubborn kind of hope. She thought maybe it would happen suddenly, like in the movies. A smell, a song, a moment, and then everything would come flooding back in a flash of clarity. She'd remember everything—her friends, her team, the person she used to be, Paige. She'd remember what it felt like to live inside her own life.

But the days—no, the weeks—have passed, and nothing's come.

All of which is why Azzi is done. Done waiting, done sitting around, done being the fragile version of herself that everyone keeps looking at like she might shatter.

She's healthy. Physically, anyway. She's been cleared by every doctor who's touched a chart with her name on it—cleared to work out, to lift, to shoot, to run. Not cleared for full contact yet, but she's close. A few more weeks, they said. A month, at most. And then she'll be fully good to go.

Her body feels fine, strong, stable, responsive in the way it's supposed to be. It's her mind that doesn't listen. It's her mind that keeps replaying the static silence inside it, keeps reminding her that there are entire years she can't reach. But she's learned that if she sits still long enough, that silence only gets louder. It starts to fill every corner of her cerebrum until it's the only thing she can hear.

So she's done. Done letting it.

She has a life to live, even if it doesn't feel like hers yet. Maybe that's the point. Maybe it'll only start to feel like hers if she actually lives it again. Maybe if she wakes up early and practices and works out and eats breakfast with people who already know her name, something inside her will shift. Maybe she'll start to remember. Or maybe she don't. Maybe she'll just make something new out of what's left.

She's already met her teammates, back when they visited her last month. They're faces she recognizes only in the sense that she knows she's supposed to recognize them. Names she's had to memorize so she doesn't forget again. They're all kind, patient, easy with her in that way people are when they don't want to scare someone who's been through too much.

They already like her, too. That's the part that makes her stomach hurt a little, knowing that there's a whole version of herself they know and she doesn't. But it also makes things easier, in a way. She doesn't have to start from scratch; she just has to reintroduce herself to a life that once belonged to her.

Not to mention that she actually knows knows Caroline and Amari. She's been spending a lot of time with the former, who stayed in Virginia longer than everyone else. And then there's Colleen, too, who's apparently one of the team managers now, which feels like a safety net of sorts. Someone Azzi can trust to always be honest with her, who can fill in the blanks without making her feel like a broken puzzle piece.

Which is why it all makes her think that it's time. To get back to campus, back to UConn.

She's going for summer sessions. She missed the start by a couple weeks, which makes her slightly anxious when she thinks about it. The idea of walking in late, of everyone already having a rhythm she's not part of—it's nerve-wracking. She's never been someone who liked being behind. She doesn't like the idea of people looking at her differently, quietly wondering what she remembers, what she doesn't. But still, she needs to go. She can't keep sitting at home, being the girl who doesn't know who she is.

She's tired of being coddled, of people watching her every move like she's a toddler about to trip over her own feet. Every sound in the house seems to carry that kind of worry. Her mom's sighs, her dad's footsteps, her brothers whispering in the next room. She loves them, she does, but it's starting to get suffocating. Every time she tries to do something normal—drive somewhere, go for a run, even just go for a walk by herself—someone asks if she's sure. If she's okay. If she wants company.

She doesn't want company. She wants space. (It's the same reason why she asked Paige for it.)

Katie and TIm were hesitant at first. They didn't want her to go. They thought it was too soon, that she wasn't ready, that she'd come back worse off than before. And, yes, part of Azzi understands that fear. But the other part, the louder, more insistent part, the part that wakes up every morning feeling like she's trapped, couldn't take it anymore.

So, she fought. She cried. She told them she was done—done waiting for her life to start again while everyone else moved forward and on. She told them she wanted to try, even if she failed. Even if it hurt. Even if she still couldn't remember who she's supposed to be. She wants to try living again.

Eventually, they agreed.

They made a deal: she can go, but they'll be nearby. They'll stay at her grandparents' cabin for a while, just a few miles from Storrs. Close enough that she can reach them if she needs to go, but far enough that she can breathe. And, honestly, that's probably for the best. She doesn't want to admit it, but she's a little scared, too.

Still, when she thinks about it, there's this weird flicker of excitement under the nerves. Because this is the start of something new, and maybe Azzi can build a version of herself that she actually recognizes, even if it's different from who she was before.

IT'S BEEN a little less than a week now, and okay—so, Azzi's reentry to the team has been... slightly awkward. Not bad, exactly. Not hostile or tense or weird. Just awkward, in that very specific way where you can feel that you've walked into a rhythm that already exists without you, and everyone's still figuring out where you fit.

Like she said, they'd all been here two weeks before she even came. They've got their jokes, their routines, their new inside references from lift groups and late-night team dinners. She showed up late. Not that anyone's blamed her for it, obviously. But she still feels that undercurrent of being behind, of having to make up for lost time.

Her roommates are Caroline and Aaliyah, which helps a lot. The comfort with Carol is immediate. Before she came back to Storrs for summer sessions, they'd already hung out a lot. She's so familiar, in the way that not many people are for Azzi anymore. Caroline's the one who drags Azzi to breakfast, who remembers that she takes her eggs scrambled, who slips her a look whenever the team gets too loud or chaotic around her, like she's silently asking, you good?

Aaliyah's different. She's energy, steady and bright. She jokes a lot, sings off-key while she's cooking, and calls Azzi Azeray, which Azzi doesn't totally understand, but doesn't mind. in fact, she kind of likes it. Aaliyah explained that's what she used to call her, in the same way that Azzi would call her Lili. She doesn't treat Azzi like she's breakable. She's funny and sweet and grounded, and she's one of the few people who doesn't seem to have that hesitation. That quiet, little moment where they remember that Azzi doesn't remember them.

And that's what really makes things awkward. The fact that they all know her, deeply intimately—her habits, her moods, the way she plays, the little tells she has on the court. They've laughed with her, cried with her, traveled with her. They've lived through all these things together that Azzi can't see anymore. She's supposed to be one of them. She is, technically. But it's just hard.

She doesn't know the freshman—Ashlynn, KK, Qadence—at all. But that's honestly, and surprisingly, kind of a relief. There's no history there, no weird tension. They don't have any version of Azzi in their heads that she has to live up to. She can just... start over. And that's actually a lot easier than she expected.

She clicks with Ash pretty quickly. They're similar in a lot of ways—both shooters, both quiet, both perfectionists in that relentless way that eats at you when you're not perfect. Ash is steady, methodical, the kind of girl who's always early to everything and still apologizes if she's not the first one in the gym. Azzi sees herself in her. Or maybe she just sees who she used to be. It's hard to tell the difference anymore.

KK's a lot different. She's loud, magnetic, with the type of energy that fills up a room and drags everyone into orbit. Paige has taken her under her wing. Azzi noticed it from the first day she got here. The way Paige lights up when KK's around, how easy they are together. Laughing, dancing, always in motion. They yell across the gym, joke during drills, playfully shove each other throughout practice. They look happy.

And it's not that Azzi's jealous, not really. She doesn't even know if she can be jealous of Paige at this point, because that would require feelings she doesn't have access to. But there's something strange about it, watching Paige with someone else like that. Seeing her be so comfortable, so effortlessly herself, with someone who isn't her. It's like watching someone through a window, close enough to see clearly, but too far away to touch.

Paige doesn't ignore her. She's not cold or rude. She says hi. She passes her the ball in drills. They make eye contact sometimes, briefly. But it's all surface, polite and easy and distant. Paige's voice doesn't linger when she says her name anymore. She doesn't look at her like she's searching for something, like she's waiting for Azzi to wake up and remember her.

Maybe that's the part that's so confusing. Azzi can't decide if she misses that or if she's grateful for the continuous space.

Back in the DMV, before she came here, it was constant. Paige showing up every day, sitting on her couch, talking to her like she was afraid to stop. And Azzi—God, she felt so awful about it. Every single time Paige looked at her with those blue eyes, hopeful and hurting at the same time, it was like a punch to the face. Because she could see the love there, clear as day. She could see exactly what it meant. And she couldn't give it back.

She knew what she was supposed to feel. She knew what she'd lost. She could even see the outline of it, like a shadow memory she could almost trace with her fingertips—but it wasn't real. There was no spark of recognition, no rush of warmth when Paige's hand would sometimes brush hers, no internal oh, there you are. Just pure emptiness.

That's what she couldn't take anymore. That constant reminder. So, she told Paige she needed space. And Paige actually listened.

And she's still listening, too. Giving her all the space she needs while they're still on the same team, living in the same small universe, orbiting around each other but never really colliding.

Azzi keeps thinking that she should feel something about that. Regret, maybe. Sadness or longing. But all she feels is... neutral. And that neutrality is guilt in its own right. Like she's betraying not only Paige, but the past version of herself because she's not aching for Paige the way she used to, the way she should be. Sometimes, when she's lying in bed and the apartment is quiet, she'll ponder on it—what it means to forget love. To lose something that deep and not even miss it the right way. It makes Azzi feel like there's something wrong with her, like she's messed up and splintered in a way that can't even be fixed.

Other times, she just doesn't bother thinking about it all. It's easier that way.

Instead, she mostly focuses on the things she can control—the workouts, the shooting, the film sessions. She learns the staff's names, starts noting the small details about her teammates. She tells herself this is good, that she's building something new.

Because she is. She's starting over. Not from where she was, but from where she is.

CAROLINE'S SITTING CROSS-LEGGED on the couch, her ramen bowl still on the coffee table, chopsticks sticking out at an angle. "Okay, but like—tell me why," she says, gesturing with one hand, incredulous. "Why would he text me, like, hey you up? at one in the morning and then not reply when I said yes? Like—why even start the fucking conversation if you're just gonna ghost two seconds later?"

Azzi hums vaguely in response, slouched in the armchair next to her. There's a blanket bunched under one arm, her legs curled up, a half-eaten bowl of ramen on the side of the coffee table in front of her. The apartment smells faintly of soy sauce and the vanilla candle Caroline lit earlier. The TV's on, low, playing Scandal in the background, neither of them paying any attention.

Caroline's still going. "Like, I don't even really like him. I genuinely don't. But the audacity—" She waves her chopsticks in the air for emphasis. "It's the principle. It's, like, if you're gonna waste my time, at least waste it efficiently."

Azzi smiles faintly, though her mind is almost entirely elsewhere. The words blur around her, a distant hum she only half registers. Her thoughts are still stuck on practice.

She keeps replaying the sound of the ball hitting the rim. Over and over and over again. That hollow, almost mocking clank—it's still echoing in her skull hours later. Brick after brick after brick. Her shooting form was perfect, knees and shoulders and hips squared. Her release was quick, efficient. They felt good. And, yet, none of them fucking went in.

It's so frustrating. Basketball is supposed to be her one thing right now. It's muscle memory, something she can rely on even when her brain feels fractured. Clearly not today.

And it certainly didn't help that they played full contact pickup and Azzi just had to watch from the side, still not completely cleared. Yes, she knows she's not the only one dealing with limits. Paige still isn't cleared, either, still finishing up her rehab from her ACL that happened last year. Jana's completely out with an Achilles tear, one that happened just last month. Nika's barely participating, too, nursing a nagging ankle sprain that keeps coming back. So Azzi shouldn't feel so alone in it. But she does.

Because, for her, basketball is essentially the only thing she doesn't have to remember how to love. And so the one day it stops clicking almost feels like omen that matches the rest of her life's atmosphere.

"Azzi."

Her name snaps her out of it. She looks up to see Carol staring at her with raised eyebrows, a smirk tugging at her lips. "You aren't even listening," she says flatly.

Azzi blinks, caught. "Yeah—yeah, I was."

"Really."

"Yeah, you were talking about..." She pauses, wracks her brain, trying to remember a single word of what Caroline was ranting about. Then, she just exhales, smiling a little sheepishly. "Okay, fine. I wasn't."

Caroline laughs, shaking her head. "Yeah, babe, you've been staring at the same spot on the wall for, like, five minutes straight. What's up?"

Azzi hesitates. She could shrug it off, make a joke, deflect like she tends to do—but she's too tired for that tonight. "Practice," she says finally, voice low, sounding slightly defeated. "It just sucked, can't stop thinking about it. I couldn't hit anything. Like, anything. I was missing stupid shots. It's just... frustrating."

Caroline watches her meaningfully, brown eyes tracing her face like she's thinking hard. "Az, you've been killing it lately. Bad days... they just happen. They're frustrating, but it probably means that tomorrow will be, like, really fuckin' good. Seriously, you don't have to worry." She says the last part firmly, like she knows what Azzi's thinking. How she's scared that whatever's been rotting her brain is gonna rot her game next.

Azzi nods, biting at the inside of her cheek. She knows Carol's right, but it doesn't really help much. The quiet in her chest feels like disappointment mixed with dread, like she's waiting for something to slip away again.

After a beat, Caroline changes the subject, going back into her rant, her voice filling the living room again. Azzi listens this time—or, at least, tries to. Later, when Caroline gets up to wash their ramen bowls, Azzi glances at the clock. It's late, almost ten. She should probably shower, wind down, do something normal like read a book. But her legs feel restless, her hands itching for something familiar.

So when Caroline calls from the kitchen, "You're not brooding, are you?" Azzi just smiles faintly and grabs her keys.

"Just gonna get some extra shots up," she responds.

Caroline yells, "Don't stay too late, Az."

"I won't," Azzi lies, pulling her hoodie on.

The air outside is cool and damp, clinging to Azzi's skin in a way that almost feels cleansing. She exhales and pulls the hood of her sweatshirt tighter over her head. The walk to Werth isn't far—five minutes, maybe six if she walks slow—but she doesn't rush it. She likes the quiet of it, the dark stretch of campus paths lit by half-dimmed lamps. It's one of the few times she feels like she can actually think without someone watching her, without her parents' cautious eyes or her teammates' careful kindness.

By the time she reaches Werth, her frustration from before still weighs heavy and restless. The lights inside the building are half off, the hallways mostly empty. Her sneakers squeak faintly against the smooth floor as she walks toward the gym, the sound echoing too loudly.

Then, she hears it. Rubber hitting wood, soft and controlled. A basketball.

Azzi slows, frowning slightly. It's late. Not impossibly late, but late enough that she didn't expect anyone else to be here. For a second, she wonders if maybe it's a janitor or someone just cleaning up. But the sound—sharp, precise, measured, all of it—is the kind of repetition that only comes from someone who's chasing perfection.

She steps closer, peering through the narrow strip of glass in the door to the gym.

It's Paige.

Azzi stills, unexpecting. Paige is standing at the free-throw line, feet set, shoulders squared. Her movements are mechanical but somehow beautiful, the same controlled shot that Azzi's seen a dozen times on film and ten times more than that in practice. She shoots, follows through, watches the ball swish clean through the net, then jogs forward to catch it herself. It's almost kind of funny, the notion of Paige Bueckers having to chase her own rebounds, but also a little bit—oddly enough—endearing.

For a moment, Azzi just stands there, half-hidden behind the door. She should leave, probably. It would be easier, less complicated, less awkward. Their paths haven't really crossed alone since Virginia—since the day Azzi told Paige she needed space. The guilt of that particular conversation still lingers in the back of her mind, like pressing on a bruise that hasn't fully healed.

She shifts her weight from one foot to the other. Her fingers twitch, restless. She came here to shoot, to fix something inside her that's been off all day. And now she's hesitating because of Paige.

She almost laughs at herself for it.

No. She can't keep tiptoeing around this. It's been bound to happen; they're teammates. She can't keep avoiding someone who clearly still wants to be in her life. And she definitely can't let guilt stop her from doing the one thing that still feels like breathing.

So, she exhales, quietly, and pushes the door open.

Paige's head snaps toward the sound immediately.

"Oh, uh—hey," Paige says, her voice cracking awkwardly in the empty gym. Her hand goes to the back of her neck, scratching like she doesn't know what to do with it. Her eyes flicker up and down once, assessing, uncertain. There's newfound tension in her shoulders, in the way she stands, but underneath it something else glints—something softer. Azzi doesn't even bother trying to name it.

"Hey," Azzi says back, stopping a few feet away.

Paige blinks, the ball still tucked under her arm. "Didn't think anyone else would be here."

"Yeah," Azzi responds, shifting her weight. "Me neither."

The silence that falls between them is awkward, but not unbearable. Just heavy in the way that makes Azzi hyper-aware of her own breathing. She can hear the faint hum of the lights overhead, the distant echo of water running somewhere in the building. She looks at the ball in Paige's hands, then at the basket behind her. "You came to get extra shots, too?" she asks, even though the answer is glaringly obvious. She just needs something to say.

Paige nods once, wordless. Her expression softens slightly, though, as if just being spoken to by Azzi is something she didn't expect tonight. The blonde looks different than the version of herself that Azzi sees everyday in practice, in group settings. A lot quieter. All that loud, playful energy—the joking, the way she messes with KK, Nika, Geno, even CD, the little dances, the bright and gummy grins—it's gone. Stripped down to something tired and soft and focused.

"I can rebound for you," Azzi offers before she can stop herself. Her voice is even, calm. "Then you can do the same for me?"

Paige blinks at her, surprised. "Okay," she replies, a small, genuine note in her voice. "Yeah. That sounds good."

Azzi walks toward the rack of balls at the edge of the court and grabs one, feeling its familiar weight in her hands. The gym smells faintly of sweat and pine cleaner, the way it always does when mostly empty. She looks at Paige again, watching as she returns to the free-throw line, the same spot she's been standing. The blonde's posture adjusts automatically: shoulders relaxed, knees bent, wrists loose. She looks like she's trying to remember something—not a play, not a move, but a version of herself she used to be.

Azzi knows that look; she's been wearing it for weeks.

Paige releases her first shot. It arcs perfectly, clean, and slips through the net without touching the rim. The sound of it is almost meditative. Azzi passes Paige the ball she's got in hand and then steps forward to catch the rebound before it can bounce away.

It's quiet at first. Just Paige shooting, Azzi catching, passing, resetting. No words, just motion. The echo of the ball against the court, the faint squeak of sneakers, the swish of the net, the clank of the rim.

Basketball—it's, at this point, the only real thing Azzi can remember her and Paige sharing. The one bridge between who she used to be and who she is now and the blonde girl before her. She supposes it's kind of ironic. According to her mom, she met Paige at a USA basketball tryout. She was fourteen, Paige fifteen. And somehow, it's still the universal constant—the one thing that always pulls them back into each other's orbit. Not that Azzi's necessarily looking for that. But it's there anyway, sitting between them in the echo of the gym like something quietly alive.

Eventually, they switch. Paige stops shooting and bounces the ball toward Azzi, saying, "It's your turn."

The younger girl catches it, nods once, and wordlessly walks to the line. Her feet feel heavier than usual, legs tired from the hours of frustration earlier, but the motion itself—the flick of her wrist, the lift of her elbow—feels automatic. The ball spins perfectly, arcs, and slips through the net clean. Thank God. It's a lot different from how practice went earlier. She'd gone brick for brick for brick, every miss biting at her confidence until she could practically feel it bleeding out of her. The one thing she's always been able to rely on, the one piece of her identity that didn't feel lost after the accident, just... failed her today.

Paige seems to sense it, because she says as she rebounds, "You looked frustrated in practice today."

Azzi shrugs, eyes still on the rim. "I couldn't make anything. It made me mad. That's why I came back tonight."

Paige nods, almost like she expected that answer. She probably did. Paige knows that kind of frustration better than anyone—Azzi's sure of it. Watching her here in Storrs, still not cleared for full contact nearly a year out from her ACL, still fighting her way back—Paige hides it well, but Azzi can see it. The tension in her shoulders when she's forced to sit out drills, the impatience buried under every joke she cracks. It's something familiar to the brunette.

Azzi shoots again. The sound of the ball rolling off her fingers feels right, a small piece of balance settling back into place. Paige rebounds and passes her another ball, wordless again. For a while, it's quiet again except for the steady rhythm between them—ball, bounce, net, pass. It's almost peaceful, like before, but then the silence starts to itch under Azzi's skin. It's too quiet, too much space to think now that they've talked a little.

And when Azzi thinks, it's dangerous.

So, before she shoots again, she glances at Paige, the faintest smirk tugging at her mouth, trying for teasing and not sure where it'll take her. "Geno was all up on you again today."

Paige scoffs, her lips quirking up slightly. "Old man always is."

Azzi rolls her eyes, releasing her next shot. "It's because you talk back so much," she says matter-of-factly. She doesn't even have to look to know she's right.

"Right," Paige replies, nodding like she already knows that. She probably does. She's been here for years; she's most likely got Geno's entire temper spectrum memorized by now. "Well. Not everyone can be the princess like you."

Azzi pauses mid-bounce, confused for a second. "Hm?" she asks, then shoots again, the motion smooth and automatic. Once more, the ball hits net, and only then does she glance back at Paige.

Paige's face softens into something almost shy, which is so different—it doesn't fit the usual swagger, the easy grin, the self-assured confidence she carries around like armor. "The princess," Paige says, hesitating, stumbling over the words in a way Azzi's not used to hearing. Her pale cheeks turn a faint pink, visible even under the dim gym lights. "Uh, that's what—we, like, that's what we always call you. You're the princess 'cause he never yells at you or nothin'. It's always just, Good job, Azzi or Good shot, Azzi. Allat."

Azzi lets out a small breath, something between a laugh and disbelief. There's something kind of ridiculous about it, but it's also endearing in a way she can't explain. "I guess not everyone can be perfect," she says lightly, the teasing tone masking the warmth that creeps into her chest.

Because, truthfully, she doesn't feel perfect. Not at all—not since the crash. Her brain still feels all sorts of fractured in all sorts of places, whole stretches of her life missing, her history with Paige sitting somewhere just out of reach. And yet Paige looks at her like she's still that same person—like she's just as perfect now as she was then.

Paige's smile widens, the edge of playfulness returning. "A'ight. If that's what it is."

Slowly, they keep talking and stop shooting. At first, it's still about the easy things—basketball, injuries, the team. Safe topics, like Azzi's frustration in practice today or Geno's obsession with yelling at Paige. The kind of things that don't demand anything from either of them except honesty in the smallest doses. Paige leans against the padded wall, stretching her knee idly, one sneaker heel dragging lazy half-circles against the hardwood while Azzi sits on the floor near the baseline, a ball balance between her palms.

It surprises her how natural it feels, the pace of their conversation, the way it flows, like a current carrying them both somewhere calm. It wasn't like this back in Virginia, after Azzi got out of the hospital. Back then, Paige's presence had been suffocating in its kindness—too much hope in every look, too much ache behind every smile. Azzi hadn't known what to do with it. She'd been drowning in confusion, her memories gone, and Paige had felt like a mirror she couldn't look into for too long without panicking. But now—now, it's quieter and gentler. Manageable.

Paige doesn't expect anything from her tonight. She just talks.

About her knee—how it stiffens when it rains, how she's been working with the trainers on getting her lateral quickness back, how "apparently my left leg forgot how to do basketball shit." Azzi laughs, small and easy. Paige smirks at that, the apples of her cheeks popping out like it used to mean something once.

"Janelle says I should be cleared in, like, a week or two," Azzi says after a beat, spinning the ball idly. "If everything goes right."

"That's huge," Paige says, genuine. "You've been killin' it lately, seriously."

Azzi shrugs, ducking her head. "I'm just... trying."

"Yeah, well," Paige replies, tossing the other ball back toward her, "you're doing better than most of us trying."

They keep going like that—looping through team gossip, talking about how Nika and Caroline are both in situationships with dumbass boys, Amari's newfound tendency to talk trash in every drill, and Coach's new obsession with rebounding stats. Paige tells her a story about KK calling Geno "grampy" to his face and getting death-stared into silence for a solid thirty seconds, and Azzi laughs again—really laughs this time. It bubbles up from somewhere that hasn't seen daylight in a long time, catching her off guard.

And Paige just watches her, quietly smiling.

It's easy, and maybe that's what gets Azzi. The ease of it. The way it feels like her brain stops trying so hard when Paige talks. The way it feels like her body remembers how to relax even when her mind doesn't.

Azzi can't help herself—she glances at Paige. The blonde is sat down now, leaning back on her hands, legs stretched out in front of her. Her hair's falling out of its bun, a little into her face, her eyes soft and impossibly blue in the fluorescent lighting. Azzi doesn't know what makes her do it, but suddenly she's speaking before she can think.

"I want to know you again," she says.

Paige looks up, eyebrows lifting, expression open but slightly stunned. Her lips part a bit, like she's afraid to breathe too loudly and break the moment.

Azzi doesn't clarify right away. She's still thinking about the words herself, about how they feel leaving her mouth: vulnerable, honest, a little raw. "I mean," she continues after a second, "if you're okay with that. I just... I want to know you again. Not from what people tell me, or from stories, or photos, or whatever. From you."

Her voice falters near the end, a little embarrassed, because she doesn't even know what she's asking for. Friendship? Connection? Closure? She doesn't know if she can ever love Paige the way she apparently once did, and that thought scares her, because the way Paige looks at her sometimes—like she's waiting for something sacred to return to her—makes Azzi feel guilty for not being that girl anymore.

But this—wanting to know her again—feels possible. It feels fair.

Paige blinks, once, twice. Her face shifts, confusion, then surprise, then something softer, like relief warming its way into her chest. "Yeah," she says finally, voice breaking into a small grin. "Yeah, Az. Yeah, I'd like that, too."

Az.

The nickname hits somewhere low and unexpected, like a memory stirring just beneath the surface. Paige says it so easily, so naturally, like she’s been saying it forever. Maybe she has. The sound of it makes Azzi’s chest feel strange—tight and familiar all at once.

Paige keeps smiling, but not in a way that pushes. Just quiet and genuine, like she’s grateful. Azzi finds herself smiling back, small but real. Because for the first time in a long time, she feels like maybe this doesn’t have to be as complicated as it’s been. Maybe it’s okay that she doesn’t remember everything. Maybe it’s enough to just start here—on a court, with a basketball rolling to a stop somewhere between them, the air humming with all the things they haven’t said but might one day.

She glances at Paige again. She’s looking down now, absently picking at the seam of the ball beside her knee. There’s something about the way the light hits her face, soft and gold, that makes Azzi’s stomach twist, though she’s not sure why.

She tells herself it’s just gratitude and optimism.

But as they sit there, across from one another, the silence warm instead of heavy, Azzi can’t help wondering if it’s the beginning of something else. Something she has no idea of, but also one at the same time. Something she’s not sure she’s ready for, but maybe someday could be.

Az.

pairing: paige bueckers x soraya mensima (oc)

synopsis: rookie paige bueckers enters the league with confidence, charm, and a bad habit of gravitating toward things she shouldn’t want— like soraya mensima, the wings’ respected star and reluctant heartbreaker. soraya’s been here longer, knows better, and refuses to let lines blur... even as paige keeps rewriting them with every smile.

warnings: none? fluff. talks of health

word count: 9409

note: a longer chapter after a whileeee y’all better appreciate this cuz i fell asleep yesterday while tryna finish ts. anyway reblogs and comments are more appreciated than just likes because it helps boost and spread my work to more ppl who might enjoy it. also very motivational to hear yalls feedback

CHAPTER THREE ━━ Space Between

𖥔 ݁˖ ━ word count: 5.5K

𖥔 ݁˖ ━ warnings: mental health issues, smoking & drinking problems, very emo all around

𖥔 ݁˖ ━ links: my masterlist, where’s my love masterlist, ao3 link

𖥔 ݁˖ ━ author’s note: this has been sitting in my drafts for like a week now because i hate how it's written and i feel as though it's very repetitive but then i realized that deadass there's no way it's gonna get any better so im posting it anyways

THEY SAY Azzi is a miracle case.

The doctors have said it so many times now it feels like a rehearsed chorus, words worn thin from repetition. They said it when she first opened her eyes after three weeks of nothingness, when her body somehow remembered how to breathe on its own again. They said it when she spoke, when her voice cracked out actual words instead of the garbled sounds they half-expected. They said it when she stood, her legs trembling but functional, no permanent paralysis, no catastrophic motor loss. They said it every time she checked another box on their endless lists: walking, talking, swallowing, following conversation, retaining new memories.

On paper, she is everything they could want from a patient with a diffuse axonal injury. People with her kind of brain trauma don’t always wake up. If they do, they don’t always walk away whole. But she can walk. She can move. She can speak in full sentences, read, write, remember everything that’s happened since waking up. Even the headaches, sharp and nagging as they sometimes are, aren’t unbearable. In their eyes, she’s living proof that miracles exist.

But Azzi doesn’t feel like a miracle. Not even close.

What kind of miracle forgets their own life? What kind of miracle sits across from their mom, their dad, their brothers, nodding like everything is fine when it feels like entire years have been carved out of them, as if someone took a knife and sliced pieces of memory away? She’s lost the map of herself, the through-line that’s supposed to stitch everything together. She knows facts: her name, her family, her high school, the ache of tearing her ACL, the general shape of basketball in her life. She knows she goes to UConn, though the “why” of it is blank, just an empty hallway in her mind. She knows who Geno Auriemma is—of course she does, who doesn’t—but when he came to visit her the other day, sitting in the corner of the room with his hands folded, she felt nothing more than the vague suspicion that he’s been in her life in some enormous, consistent way. Like recognizing a neighbor from childhood but not remembering the house they lived in.

She can’t remember her girlfriend.

That one feels the worst. The ugliest, sharpest thing lodged inside her. Paige—blonde hair, impossibly blue eyes, the kind of presence that feels steady even when the world is collapsing. She looks at her like she’s oxygen, like she’s the most important thing in the room, maybe in the world. Azzi didn’t recognize her at first. Still doesn’t, really. Not her voice, not her laugh, not her hand reaching carefully toward her. Nothing.

What does it mean to have had a person so close to you—close enough that everyone calls her your girlfriend, your partner, your person—and not remember them at all? She doesn’t feel like a miracle. She feels like a fraud.

Everyone keeps telling her to be grateful. That she’s here, that she’s functioning, that she should thank God for how intact she is compared to what could’ve happened. And she does feel grateful, in the abstract way you feel when you know you’re supposed to. But at the same time, she doesn’t feel whole. She feels hollowed out, like someone carved away the core of her life and left her to walk around pretending the outline was enough.

She thinks about Geno’s visit again, the way he’d looked at her with something complicated in his eyes. “You’re tough,” he’d said, almost softly, like it was a secret between them. She’d smiled, polite, but inside she’d wanted to scream: Do I know you? Do I know what you mean to me? But she didn’t. And it made everything awkward, heavy in the room.

And Paige—God, Paige—Paige had been standing in the corner then, too, quiet in a way Azzi’s mom later told her wasn’t like her. Apparently, she’s usually loud, sarcastic, always talking. But around Azzi now, she’s careful, deliberate, like she’s holding her breath every second they’re in the same space. And Azzi doesn’t know how to bridge that. She doesn’t know how to look at someone who looks at her like that—like love—and admit she can’t feel it back.

Her head throbs, not from the injury, but from the weight of all of it.

She isn’t a miracle. Miracles don’t forget the best parts of themselves.

Most of Azzi’s UConn teammates come down to Virginia, to her parents’ house, to see her. It’s supposed to be this warm, comforting thing—friends rallying around her, people who love her showing up in her corner.

She only really remembers Caroline and Amari. Caroline has been there since middle school, when their names started circling around the same conversations, when national scouts started stringing them together in sentences, and Amari too—familiar faces in the blur of gyms, tournaments, tryouts. That kind of recognition has roots. Even if she can’t recall all the details, she knows them, knows the shape of their friendship—especially Carol. Azzi knows Carol, which is comforting to say the least. And Colleen, of course—Colleen isn’t just UConn. She’s life. She’s always been there, since before all of this. Colleen feels like a rope tied to the past, the one thing Azzi can hold onto without fumbling.

The others—she has to work harder for them. She’s memorized them, not because it’s natural, but because she can’t stand the thought of hurting them, of looking into the eyes of people who clearly care for her and admitting she doesn’t know them anymore. She doesn’t want to see their faces crumple, or watch their laughter dim into pity. So she studies them like she’s cramming for an exam, repeating the names in her head, matching quirks to faces, hoping that’s enough.

There’s Aaliyah—or Lili, Azzi’s learned a lot of them call her that. A year older, Canadian, funny in a dry kind of way that doesn’t crowd Azzi. She has this timing that makes people laugh without trying too hard, and Azzi is grateful for that, because it doesn’t feel like pressure. Aaliyah’s humor doesn’t demand anything of her; it’s just there, genuinely funny, giving Azzi space to breathe and sometimes even laugh.

There’s Ice—Azzi repeats her real name in her head sometimes (Insuneh), but “Ice” is the nickname that sticks, the one that rolls off everyone else’s tongue. She’s younger, quick with jokes too, but there’s an edge to her energy, like she’s constantly looking for the switch in Azzi’s brain that will flip the lights back on. She asks questions that circle back to the past Azzi can’t access, nudges her with stories, laughs a little too brightly when Azzi shakes her head. Azzi knows it comes from a place of care, but it leaves her drained. It makes her feel like a puzzle being forced into place when the pieces don’t fit. She doesn’t say anything, though. She never does.

Ayanna is younger too. She’s quieter, more of a steady presence than anything else. She doesn’t push. She doesn’t fill the silence, either—she just sits in it, letting it exist. And Azzi appreciates that, even if she doesn’t know how to show it. Sometimes it feels like Ayanna’s quietness says, I know this is hard, I don’t expect you to perform for me.

Then there’s Ines. From Portugal, which Azzi finds interesting. She’s sweet in a way that makes Azzi’s chest ache because she can see the disappointment shadowing her whenever Azzi admits she doesn’t remember something. It isn’t anger or blame, just sadness, and that makes it worse. Azzi hates it—being the source of that expression, that someone so kind can look at her and wish for a version of her that’s gone. She wants to give that back to her, but she can’t.

Aubrey’s there too—older, chill, the kind of person who blends into the room without demanding attention. She doesn’t ask Azzi for things, doesn’t lean in too close, doesn’t make her feel like a project. Mostly, she sticks near Paige, orbiting quietly, and Azzi finds that she’s grateful for her too, for not making it harder than it already is.

And then there’s Nika. Paige’s best friend. Funny, sharp, easy to like, but impossible to ignore the way she watches Azzi, like she’s willing her to snap back into the girl she was. She doesn’t say it, but it’s there in her eyes every time they land on Azzi—remember, remember, remember. Azzi feels like she’s failing her just by existing as she is now.

And then there’s Paige. Always Paige.

Azzi’s gotten more familiar with her, the way you get familiar with a song you don’t remember choosing but has been playing in the background long enough you start to know the words. But it’s still just… awkward. Knowing, from everyone else’s mouths, what they were, what they meant to each other, and not being able to feel it. She tries to imagine it sometimes, tries to picture the version of herself that must have looked at Paige and felt that pull, that rush, that love. She can’t.

Paige comes over the most. She lives nearby, and she’s close with Azzi’s family, practically a second daughter in the house. Azzi’s mom has told her about the pandemic, how Paige lived here for months, how it was just the two of them in the gym, working, keeping each other sane. Azzi nods along, pretends it lands somewhere. The truth is she only vaguely remembers there even was a pandemic. Masks, vaccines, the way the world slowed down—but not the details, not the endless days everyone swears they survived together.

Drew comes too, Paige’s little brother. The one that was there the day she woke up. He’s younger than Azzi’s brothers, still in that sweet spot of boyhood where everything is either funny or exciting. He hangs out with with Jon and José a lot, and sometimes Azzi sits back and just watches them all together. Drew’s laugh is easy, unbothered, and for a moment it makes things feel lighter, like maybe she doesn’t have to carry the weight of remembering everything right then.

And Paige—Paige is nice. Genuinely nice. She’s careful with Azzi, thoughtful in the way she talks to her, patient when Azzi doesn’t know something. But more often than not, it’s overwhelming. Sometimes Paige slips—just a little—lets herself get pushy without meaning to, telling stories with too much hope in her voice, waiting for the spark that doesn’t come. Azzi doesn’t know her well enough to appreciate it, doesn’t know how to say, stop, please, it’s too much. She understands it—she really does—but it doesn’t make it easier.

And that’s the hardest part. That all of this is supposed to be easy. Supposed to be love and friendship and laughter, supposed to be home. But instead it feels like standing in a room full of people holding a photo album open, pointing at picture after picture, and Azzi staring at them blankly, wishing desperately that she could step inside.

It feels like that now, as her mom’s car pulls out of the driveway, José and Jon with her for the aforementioned’s practice. The house is suddenly too big, too echoing. Azzi can hear the hum of the refrigerator in the kitchen, the faint ticking of the wall clock, the rustle of the trees outside the window. It’s one of the few times she’s been alone with Paige without the buffer of other people, and the silence between them feels loaded, weighted down with all the things Azzi doesn’t know what to say, and all the things Paige probably doesn’t know how to say.

Paige is in the armchair by the window, half-sunk into the cushions but restless—her leg bouncing, fingers fumbling with the loose hairs that have fallen out of her low, blonde bun. Her phone is in her hand, the screen glowing faintly, but she isn’t really looking at it. Azzi knows the difference between someone reading and someone just staring, and Paige is definitely just staring.

Azzi sits on the couch, legs pulled up, blanket tucked around her shoulders even though the room is warm. Her head throbs faintly, not unbearable but steady enough that it keeps her aware of it, aware of herself. She wishes she could sink into the cushions, disappear into the fabric, stop existing long enough for the pressure to lift. But Paige is here. And Paige keeps looking over at her, small glances, like she’s waiting for something.

The worst part is, Azzi knows Paige isn’t trying to make her uncomfortable. Everything about her—the careful tone, the gentleness, the patience—is meant to make things easier. And yet it doesn’t. It only makes the guilt sharper, because she knows what Paige is hoping for every time she opens her mouth, and she knows she’ll disappoint her every single time.

Paige breaks the silence first. She shifts in the chair, clears her throat, and says softly, “Drew wanted me to tell you he’ll come by after practice tomorrow. He’s excited to hang out again.”

Azzi forces a smile, nodding. “He’s funny,” she says quietly, because it’s true. Drew is easy. Azzi enjoys time spent near him.

Paige smiles too, briefly, and for a second Azzi wonders what exactly that smile used to do to her. Did it make her stomach flutter? Did it ground her? She doesn’t know. Now it just makes her insides twist, because Paige looks at her like she’s still that person, like she’s still her.

Another stretch of silence. Paige picks at the sleeve of her sweatshirt, her blue eyes flickering toward Azzi then away, like she wants to say more but is holding back. Azzi feels the words building in her own chest, pressing against her ribs until she can’t keep them down.

It comes out more sudden than she wants: “I need space.”

The words are spread before she can soften them, and the air in the room shifts instantly. Paige stills completely, her phone lowering to her lap, her knee freezing mid-bounce. She looks at Azzi, not hurt yet, just startled. “Space?” she repeats, carefully, like she’s making sure she heard right.

Azzi’s throat is dry, but she nods anyways. “Yeah. I just… I need some space right now.”

Paige blinks, nods slowly, her expression unreadable. “Okay. What kinda space are we talkin’ about?” Her voice is calm, almost too calm, like she’s trying to stay steady and stable for both of them. She’s probably been trying to do that since the accident, and Azzi feels pity and guilt and empathy simultaneously because she knows how shitty all of this has been.

Azzi fumbles, words tangling. “I don’t know. Just… I feel like everything’s too much. Having everyone around, all the reminders of things I should know but, like, don’t. Even you, and I don’t mean that in a bad way, but it’s…” She exhales sharply, presses a hand to her temple, fingers digging into thin skin. “It’s overwhelming. And I can’t think straight when I’m like this. I can’t… breathe.”

Paige doesn’t interrupt. She just watches her, eyes unblinking, just fixed and so very blue, and that makes it harder somehow. Azzi pushes on anyway, because if she doesn’t, she’ll drown in the silence and the idea of not saying what needs to be said. “I appreciate you being here. I really do. You’ve been nothing but kind and patient. I can see that, and I’m grateful for it. But… it just feels like I’m—I don’t know, standing in a place where everyone knows me and I don’t even know myself. And it’s exhausting, and it’s scary, and I—I don’t really know how much longer I can do it for, honestly.”

Paige nods again, but Azzi can see the change this time—the flicker of pain in her eyes, a dash of wetness flushing with cerulean, the way her shoulders tense. She tries to cover it and stay composed, but it’s there. Azzi hates that she put it there.

“I, uh… I get it,” Paige says softly, after a beat. “You don’t have to explain more if it’s hard. If you need space, you… need space.”

Her voice is steady, but Azzi can hear the crack underneath it, like a thread pulled too tight. She wants to tell her she’s sorry, that it’s not about her, that she doesn’t want her gone forever. But, if she’s honest, she can’t promise that either, because the truth is, she doesn’t know how long she’ll need this distance. It could be days. It could be—forever. And saying that out loud would feel like shoving a knife into Paige’s chest.

The blonde stands slowly, slipping her phone into her pocket, and Azzi feels panic rise in her throat even as relief flickers in her chest. Both emotions crash together, confusing, suffocating. Paige gives her a small smile, practiced, the kind that looks like it hurts to hold, that doesn’t reach her eyes for a second. “I’ll head out then,” she says. “Let you… uh, breathe a little.”

Azzi swallows hard. “Thank you,” she murmurs, hating herself for how pathetic it sounds.

Paige just nods, starts toward the door. Then she hesitates, glances back. For the briefest second, Azzi sees everything Paige is trying to hide—the grief, the disbelief, the stubborn hope. And then it’s gone again, replaced by that tight smile. “I’ll see you later, ‘kay?” she says, and then she’s gone.

The door clicks shut, and the silence that follows is crushing. Azzi sinks deeper into the couch, blanket pulled up to her chin, and feels the relief first. Relief that she can finally exhale, finally unclench. But it’s chased almost immediately by guilt, sharp and heavy, pressing into her chest until it hurts.

She did the right thing, she tells herself. She needs space, she needs time. She can’t keep suffocating just to protect someone else’s feelings. But beneath the logic is something stranger, something harder to name—an ache, a hollow twisting, a burning within her very bloodstream, like she’s lost something vital without ever knowing what it ever even really was.

She presses her palms to her eyes, willing the headache to ease, willing the thoughts to quiet. But the absence in the room feels enormous, and for the first time since she woke up in that hospital room, Azzi wonders if the doctors are wrong about her being a miracle case. Because right now, all she feels is like a tragedy.

PAIGE UNDERSTANDS. She really does. She knows Azzi's brain is a battlefield right now, scrambled memories and aching nerves and fragments of herself missing like torn-out pages from a book. She knows Azzi doesn't mean to hurt her. She knows the request for space wasn't cruel or calculated—it was careful, apologetic. She knows all of that. And still, it fucking hurts.

It isn't the kind of pain Paige can point to, like the sharp stab of an ACL tear or the dull ache of a bruise spreading under her skin. No, this is deeper. It lives in her bones, makes them feel hollow and heavy at once. Her blood runs hot, like acid, like every vein has been lined with fire. Her chest feels too tight, like her lungs and heart don't work the same anymore. Her stomach turns over itself whenever she thinks of the way Azzi looked at her, so gentle, so regretful, telling her she needed distance. Paige swears she felt her heart physically splinter.

It feels almost like Azzi's died—or, no, not died, Azzi's alive, she's breathing, she's walking, she's laughing sometimes. She exists, and Paige is eternally grateful for that. But the part of her that Paige loved, that loved Paige back, the part that made all of life feel like it had shape and color and meaning—that part is gone. Or maybe not gone, maybe buried so deep inside that no one ever knows if it'll ever claw its way back to the surface. And that, in some ways, feels worse than death.

The closest comparison Paige can come up with is a breakup, except it's worse than that, because breakups are at least mutual in their grief. They come with explanations, even if they're painful. This—this isn't a breakup. It's a hollowing. It's some she loves being carved away piece by piece until the person left behind doesn't even recognize her. Azzi didn't say "I don't love you anymore," she said "I don't know you." Paige doesn't know which one stings more.

She tries to act fine. She really does. She slaps on smiles when her mom FaceTimes her, cracks stupid jokes for Drew, makes half-hearted appearances when her friends try to drag her out. She lies through her teeth when coaches or trainers ask how she's feeling about her rehab, saying she's locked in, saying she's disciplined. But inside, she's rotting. Inside, she's fucking screaming.

The nights are by far the worst. She lies in bed staring at the ceiling, the shadows on her walls too sharp, too loud. She scrolls through old photos, old videos—Azzi's laugh caught on camera, Azzi leaning into her shoulder, Azzi shooting in an empty gym while Paige filmed. She knows it's torture, knows it's pouring salt into a wound that won't close, but she can't stop. She keeps replaying them like maybe, if she stares long enough, she'll burn herself into Azzi's memory again through sheer force of will.

When that doesn't work, she smokes. Stupid little packs she buys like she's sneaking around, like she's not a Division I athlete with everything to lose. The first drag burns her throat, makes her cough, but after that it numbs something. It gives her lungs a different kind of ache, one she can control. The smell lingers on her fingers, her clothes, and she hates it, but she keeps doing it anyway, like maybe if she punishes her body enough it'll distract her from the other kind of punishment.

She drinks, too. Too much. Enough that her dad notices, enough that arguments between them have started flaring up—even worse than the ones they had when she was in middle and high school, a teenager with an attitude that was only ever directed at her parents because she was too kind for it to go anywhere else. He tells her she's throwing away her rehab, that she's squandering her chance, that basketball is everything. And she wants to scream at him that he doesn't understand—that basketball wasn't everything, not when Azzi existed, not when Azzi was hers. That losing Azzi feels like losing the game, the court, the air itself. But she doesn't scream. She just lets the fights happen, lets him storm off, then finds herself another masochist distraction.

Her knee throbs when she skips a day of rehab. The tightness lingers when she half-asses her exercises. She knows she should care more. Before the accident, it was all she cared about—getting back on the court. She knows she should be terrified of losing her career, of jeopardizing everything she's worked so tirelessly for. But she can't. Because when she pictures the future, she can't see herself on a court without Azzi on the sideline, or on the wing, or across from her in a huddle. She can't see herself at all, really. Just a blur, an absence.

She thinks about calling Azzi every day. She doesn't. She writes texts she never sends, long ones and short ones, sometimes just "hi" sitting unsent in her drafts. She wants to respect the space Azzi asked for, she does, but the silence eats her alive. It makes her doubt everything—was Azzi's gentle tone really just gentleness, or was it relief at finally getting Paige away? Was the look on her face really regret, or was it pity? Paige tears herself apart over questions she can't answer.

She walks around feeling like a ghost, truly pathetic. In the grocery store, in the gym, at church with her family—she moves through the world like she's there but not there, like her skin is an ill-fitting costume she can't take off.

She feels like that now in this dim, washed bar. She doesn't even know why she's here. Or maybe she does, and she just doesn't want to admit it. She hasn't touched the drink in front of her in ten minutes. Maybe longer. She doesn't want it, not really. But she doesn't want to be home either, in her dad's condo where every corner feels like it's waiting to collapse on her.

She used to hate this—drinking alone. The idea of it was pathetic, depressing. A sign that something was wrong with you. Paige Bueckers was always the life of the party, the one laughing too loud, spilling drinks with her teammates, going to bars and frats and never once thinking about it the next morning. Drinking is supposed to be social, fun. Not... this. Not her sitting hunched on a cracked leather barstool, watching ice melt in a glass she doesn't want to finish.

But things are different now. Everything's different.

The bartenders here know her name. Not in the celebrity sense—though, sure, they probably knew that before. She's Paige Bueckers, UConn's golden girl even injured. But now it's a different kind of knowing, familiar and worn-in. Like the kind that comes from seeing someone too often, someone who maybe shouldn't be here as much as they are. The kind of knowing that has edges to it, concern behind the polite smile when she walks in, a glance traded between them when she orders another one.

She hates it. Hates the pity and the unspoken questions on their faces. It makes her skin itch, makes her want to crawl out of her own body. But still, she keeps coming back. Because what else is she supposed to do?

Her head is heavy, her body heavier, like she's filled with cement instead of blood. She rests her forehead against the bar top, doesn't care how gross it is. The wood is sticky and smells faintly of bleach and spilled beer, and she thinks maybe she deserves that—maybe she deserves to soak it all in through her skin until she reeks of it. Maybe that's who she is now.

And then she feels it. A shift in the air beside her, the scrape of the stool, the presence sliding in close. She doesn't even need to look up—she knows. The scent, the familiarity of it, the way her whole body tenses before her brain even catches up.

"Paige, what're you doing here?"

Her dad's voice is soft, but not too soft. A sigh threaded into it. Not surprised, not anymore, but disappointed. That tone that cuts sharper than if he'd raised it.

Paige fights the urge to groan, to tell him to go away, to leave her the hell alone. Instead, she lets her head sink further into the bar top, like maybe if she presses hard enough, she'll disappear into it. "How did you even find me?"

She wants to sound annoyed, biting. Instead, it cones out flat, tired. Like she doesn't have the energy for much else.

"I have your Find My iPhone," he says simply.

Of course he does. God. He never checked it when she was in high school. Not once. She'd be out at parties until far too late, slipping back into the house through the garage, and he'd be fast asleep, trusting her, believing she was where she said she was. He never tracked her, never hovered. And now—now, apparently, when she's twenty-one, he does. Because he has to.

"Baby, why're you here?" he asks again.

That word—baby—hits something inside her she doesn't want to deal with. It makes her feel small, too young, too vulnerable. She doesn't want to be his baby right now. She wants to be numb. She wants to not feel anything at all.

She shakes her head, forehead dragging against the grimy wood. "Wanted a drink, I dunno."

Bob sighs again, that deep, familiar sound that carries more weight than words. Then, his hand comes under her chin, gentle but firm, tilting her head up until she's forced to meet his eyes. It makes her feel younger in a way she doesn't want to feel—like she's ten again and caught riding her bike without a helmet, like she's sixteen and sulking after a bad game. Vulnerable. Small.

He swipes at her forehead with his thumb, a quick gesture, almost instinctive. Probably wiping away the grime from where she pressed it against the bar. The tenderness of it just makes her ache more.

"Paige, I'm worried."

Two words in and she wants to break. But she doesn't. She forces her face blank, forces her voice flat, that well-practiced monotone she's been using for weeks now, the one she's convinced herself makes her sound believable. "I'm fine."

It comes out too fast, too sharp, like snapping a rubber band. And she can hear it—how unconvincing it is. She’s said it so many times recently it doesn’t even feel like language anymore, just empty noise. Two syllables that don’t hold any weight, not when her hands are shaking like this, not when she can’t even look her own dad in the eye for more than a second.

Bob’s head shakes, slow. “No. No, you’re not.” His voice is steady, not harsh, but there’s a firmness underneath it, like he’s not going to let her wriggle out of this one. “And it’s okay not to be, but I can’t sit here and watch you destroy yourself, Paige. I won’t.”

Her throat tightens. She wants to argue, wants to tell him he’s overreacting. But the truth is sitting heavy in her stomach, impossible to spit out.

“A few drinks a week is fine,” he continues, his tone softening just a little, trying to meet her where she is. “But every day? That’s not like you. That’s not healthy. And skipping your rehab? P, seriously. You know better.”

She shakes her head quickly, the movement jerky, desperate, like she can shake off the truth clinging to her skin. Her eyes sting, hot and relentless, tears threatening at the edges. She blinks fast, tries to force them away, but they blur her vision anyway.

"It's not every day," she argues weakly, voice quiet and thin.

Bob just gives her a look. That dad look. The one that’s not angry, not scolding, just knowing, the one she’s never been able to fight against because it’s always, always true.

And she hates it. Hates how right he is, hates that she’s sitting here on this cracked stool with her father next to her in a bar she shouldn’t even be in on a weeknight, nursing a drink she doesn’t even want. Hates that he sees her like this, broken open and trying so hard to keep herself taped together when the tape’s long since peeled off.

Her chest is caving in. She wants to tell him to leave her alone, to let her figure it out, but she also wants nothing more than for him to grab her by the shoulders and tell her how to fix this, tell her what to do, because she doesn’t fucking know anymore.

Bob exhales, long and slow, his hand slipping from her chin to hold her shoulder. “Talk to me, P. Please.”

Her throat feels tight, her chest heavier by the second. The excuses dry up on her tongue. She doesn’t want to lie to him, not tonight. She presses her palms against her thighs, stares down at them, and mutters, “I just… I don’t know what to do.”

“About what?” he asks gently.

She doesn’t even know where to start. About Azzi, about basketball, about the way her whole life feels like it’s slipping through her fingers and she can’t hold onto any of it. “About everything,” she says finally, voice cracking right through the middle.

He doesn’t push. Doesn’t lecture. Just shifts closer on the barstool, wrapping an arm around her shoulders, and she doesn’t even resist. She leans into him, all sharp edges and hollow parts, and the tears come faster than she can fight them.

“I don’t know how to deal with any of this,” she admits into his chest, the words muffled. “I don’t know what to do without her.”

He rubs slow circles into her back, doesn’t say anything right away, and Paige is grateful for that. She doesn’t need answers—there aren’t any. She just needs someone to hold her while she falls apart.

Paige Bueckers x Azzi Fudd Summary: Paige Bueckers isn’t just a college basketball elite, she’s also the Casanova of her era. Azzi Fudd, UConn’s volleyball darling, tries to keep things platonic. But resisting Paige’s charms proves harder with every game Paige is playing on and off the court. Azzi tries to wrestle with her resolve as she gets the feeling she's bound to get burned. Author’s note: this is an AU where Azzi plays volleyball in UConn. someone requested for a player!paige fic. **MASTERLIST** Word Count: 4,762

Paige x Azzi

WC: 6.3k

Warnings: a lil angsty and destructive behaviour

A/N: Y'all, I don't even know what to say. Hope you like this chapter, it was kind of written in a rush so I'm not too satisfied with it, but I hope it still conveys the feelings I wanted to portray.

Masterlist

---

It was Friday night and Velvet was full of people. The bar was crowded and everyone seemed to need something to drink at the same time. 

Alexine was running back and forth, shaking the shaker and crushing the ice.

Paige, on the other hand, was standing there with a wine bottle in one hand, and a glass in the other, frozen midmotion and just stared at the booth in the corner. 

“Um, sorry to bother your meaningless staring, but can you like pour up the wine please?” Alexine waved her hands in front of the blonde, annoyed at her work tempo. “There’s a literal line over here.”

Paige blinked rapidly and shook her head to wake herself up from her daydream. Or was it called a daydream even if it felt more like an involuntary obsessive thought that consumed her whole mind every time she relaxed for more than two seconds?

“Sorry,” she mumbled and helped Alexine to tend to the bar. 

Alexine had seen it all. She had seen every step on Paige’s slow descent to hell. From the first two weeks where Paige had pretended to be fine, even though she always worked with watery eyes. To the last couple of weeks where Alexine could tell that she had lost weight. 

This night though, Paige was seemingly on the threshold to the next step closer to the fiery pits of hell. 

“Hey, that’s enough,” Alexine said firmly as she noticed Paige downing another pure vodka shot down her throat. None of the bartenders usually drank at work.

“Whatever, mom,” Paige just mumbled and kept glancing towards the booth in the corner. 

Alexine rolled her eyes impatiently. Her best friend was being a horrible colleague, an asshole friend and an overall pain in the ass this particular night. 

“If I see you take another shot, I’m gonna call Sue,” she said, threatening to call their boss. But both of them knew it was a weak threat, mostly because Sue would just lightly scold Paige, and that would be it. Paige and Alexine were Sue’s weakness, and they both knew it. 

“Yeah, right,” Paige scoffed and crushed some ice. 

Her eyes kept glancing towards the booth in the corner where a group of young men and women were sitting. Alexine noticed how the blonde would always stare into the same space of air and followed her gaze. 

“You know them?” she asked while she poured up two glasses of beer. 

Paige shook her head slowly. “No.”

But in her head, she kept seeing the woman who always visited her in her dreams. 

She remembered that black minidress that was covered in rhinestones. And even though she hated the fact that she was sitting in some guy’s lap, she would do anything to go back to that night again. 

Maybe it was her mind playing tricks. Maybe it was her own fault, wishing life into something lifeless in her own head. But the way she almost felt like Azzi was gonna be there every time she looked over there felt too real to be just a wish. 

Hope was a powerful feeling. And with a dash of heartbreaking desperation and a pinch of painful longing, it could create a different reality. 

For Paige, Azzi was there. Somewhere in the crowd of people.

Paige could feel it in her whole body. She was warm and everything around her seemed to move slower. And despite being warm, the hair on her skin was standing up, as if her whole body knew that it had to be alert for something that was about to happen. 

She downed another shot of vodka. 

It wasn’t her first. It wasn’t her second. 

Hell, it wasn’t even her fifth. 

Alexine didn’t even get the time to scold her before she was starting to approach the table.

“Oh fuck,” Alexine muttered to herself as she saw the blonde one slightly stagger her way over to the booth in the corner. She wanted to follow her and drag her to the back of the bar and tell her to go home, but she couldn’t leave the bar unattended. 

Paige was standing in front of the group of people around the table and looked at a man who was sitting in the very same place Azzi had been sitting that night. 

“You,” she pointed at him, her eyes clearly hazy. “Get out.”

The man frowned at her, then mockingly scoffed. 

“No?”

Paige took a deep breath and spoke up again. 

“You're sitting in her seat,” she snarled. “Get out.” 

“What the fuck are you talking about?” he asked, bewildered. The rest of the group was looking at her like she was crazy. 

“You can’t fucking sit there, she needs it,” Paige said and started to grab his shirt to make him stand up. 

Alexine hurriedly finished the drinks she was doing and rushed to them, as a very weird tug of war started between Paige and this man. 

“Hey hey hey, stop,” she grabbed Paige’s shoulders and steered her away. 

But Paige didn’t want to stop. 

She wrenched herself out of Alexine’s grasp and grabbed the man’s arm instead this time. 

The atmosphere quickly turned from confusing to hostile. 

Alexine was trying to pull Paige away from there while the people around the table were starting to yell insults at her. The man let himself be pulled up on his feet, and he shoved Paige away from him, making her stagger backwards into Alexine’s body. 

“Don’t fucking touch me!” she yelled out with wild eyes and was just about to shove him back, but Alexine had wrapped her arms around her torso, holding her tightly. 

“Bro, what are you doing?” Alexine asked in panic. 

All eyes were on them, and the energy in the bar was starting to heat up. Some jerks were starting to chant, “Fight! Fight! Fight!” while others stood silently, just watching the commotion unfold.

The man in front of them just looked confused. He was kind of big, and he could’ve easily had her knocked out if he had wanted to, but he had given her grace. And somehow that pissed her off even more. 

“Let me go!” Paige wrenched herself free again and braced herself for impact.

Alexine didn’t even get the time to register what happened before Paige was approaching the man again, this time with her hand curled into a fist. 

“Paige stop-”

A loud bang was heard the second after, and the whole bar went quiet. 

The man looked down in front of him and saw Paige on the floor. 

She had tripped on her own feet before she even had the chance to charge at him. 

“Fuck,” Alexine said under her breath and rushed forward to her. “Paige, are you okay?” 

“Should I call the ambulance?” the man who was almost just attacked crouched down and asked her. 

“Um, yeah, that might be good,” Alexine stressfully said. 

It had happened fast, but everyone in the bar had caught the moment Paige had tripped on her own feet, fallen down and hit her head on the edge of the table and down to the floor. 

Alexine rolled her over and saw a nasty black eye on Paige’s right side. 

She was unconscious. 

“Shit,” Alexine exhaled in panic. She was running on pure adrenaline now. 

“The paramedics are on their way,” the man told her.

“Thank you,” Alex swallowed. 

She looked around and saw everyone staring at the scene. 

This wasn’t good. 

“Um, alright, we’re gonna have to close early tonight. I am so sorry for the inconvenience. You’ll get a drink on us next time,” she announced to the crowd, and most of the people respectfully left. 

“Hey, I’m really sorry about that,” Alexine said to the man who had nearly been attacked. “It wasn’t personal, she was probably having some kind of psychotic episode or something, I don’t even know. But seriously, I hope you’ll come back, and thank you for helping out. Your next drink, or probably even the next five, are definitely on us.”

“Don’t worry about it,” he smiled and left with his group of friends. 

Not soon after, Alexine was alone with the unconscious woman on the floor. 

“God damnit Paige,” she sighed and carefully brushed some blonde strands out of her face. “What just happened?”

While they waited for the ambulance, Alex grabbed her phone and called Sue. She told her what had happened and that she had to close the bar early. Sue didn’t like what she was hearing, but mostly because she was worried about Paige’s health. 

“I know, I’ve told her that she should take some time off and go on a holiday or something, but she doesn’t listen,” Alexine told her boss. 

“She’s too destructive to be working right now,” Sue stated. “Tell me what the paramedics say.”

“I will,” Alexine said. “Okay, I think she’s starting to wake up now. I gotta go.”

She hung up the phone and crouched down to the blonde who was starting to stir. Even before she opened her eyes, she frowned in pain. 

“Why am I on the floor?” she asked and looked at Alexine with a confused face. “Fuck, my head hurts.”

With the help of Alex, she slowly sat up on the floor and rubbed her head gently. 

“You hit your head on the table, you dumbass,” Alexine said with a trembling voice. The relief she felt over seeing her friend awake washed over her. 

“Where is everybody?”

“They left. We’re waiting on the paramedics,” Alexine told her. 

Before Paige could ask another question, she jerked her body to the side and threw up right on the floor. 

There goes the vodka. 

“Oh, Paige,” Alex commented with a disgusted face. 

The paramedics came five minutes later. They checked her vital signs, her level of consciousness and did a little neurological exam. They asked her questions she knew the answers on, and they checked the black eye gently. 

“She shouldn’t need to go to the hospital, she’ll be fine with some rest and monitoring. Does she have anyone who can stay with her?” 

“I’ll stay with her,” Alexine said immediately. 

Paige was sitting on a chair with her head bowed down in shame. Her head was still spinning and aching with pain, but in her mind, she felt sober. 

She had let herself go. The bar had to close early, and they had to call the fucking ambulance for her. All because of what? Her lack of restraint. 

It was always her lack of restraint, wasn’t it?

Paige cursed under her breath. She felt like a kid.

Alexine said goodbye to the paramedics and sat down beside her blonde friend with a heavy sigh. 

“Well that was fun,” she said sarcastically and looked at Paige who just stared at the floor with empty eyes. 

Paige didn’t say anything. What could she even say at this point? 

“Let’s go home,” Alexine said and stood up to extend her hand in front of Paige. 

Paige slowly took it and followed her out to her car. 

Alexine had been nothing but patient with Paige. She hadn’t pried, she hadn’t pressured her to talk about Azzi and she hadn’t told Sue about every time Paige had come late to her shifts. 

But her patience was thrown out the window tonight. 

Seeing Paige be so self destructive to the point of hurting herself like this made her drop all her barriers from lecturing Paige that enough is enough. 

“Paige,” Alexine spoke up as she was driving her way to Paige’s apartment. “I know you miss Azzi, but-”

“-Stop, I don’t want to talk about her,” Paige talked over her with a tired voice. 

“But we have to,” Alexine said seriously. “This isn’t okay, Paige. This behaviour of yours these last weeks have been awful. Not just to us at work, but to yourself as well. You were about to fucking punch a guy, and for what? For Azzi?”

Paige flinched when she said her name again. Every casual mention of it felt like someone was trying to hurt her. 

“You don’t know what you’re talking about,” Paige scoffed. 

“So then tell me!?” Alexine almost yelled. “Fucking tell me what’s going on? Why are you downing shot after shot at work? Why are you coming in late when I know you hate being late? Why are you losing weight in a matter of weeks?”

Paige sighed and scratched her scalp with her fingers, visibly irritated with Alexine’s questions. 

“Alright I’m sorry for being late sometimes, okay? But there’s really no need for you to be this upset with me,” Paige argued. 

“I know you’re having a hard time adjusting to the absence of Azzi,” Alexine sighed loudly, and Paige once again flinched at the sound of her name. “I don’t get why you can’t just admit that?”

“I can admit that,” Paige said. “All I’m saying is that you don’t gotta be all this upset with me. You don’t have to worry.”

“Oh my fucking God, you’re impossible,” Alexine groaned. “You just knocked yourself out with a black eye and threw up the second you regained consciousness, but I don’t have to worry? Fuck off.”

Paige didn’t say anything more. She just huffed out air from her nose angrily and stared out the window of the car. 

It was raining. Of course it was raining. 

It was a shitty day in every way. 

Paige didn’t want to admit it out loud, but she was ashamed. She was ashamed that she had wanted Azzi to be there so much, that she thought that she would appear right where she was the last time, if only that fucking man gave her space to reappear. 

In reality, it was Paige’s own mind being pissed at the fact that she couldn’t picture her there while he was sitting there. 

It was embarrassing. So, so embarrassing. 

Alexine didn’t have to know. 

God, Paige wanted nothing but to forget about it all forever. 

With an uneasy silence between them, the two friends exited the car when they arrived at Paige’s apartment and walked inside together. 

Alexine had promised to stay, after all. 

“Oh my God, what happened?” Josh exclaimed in concern when he saw the black eye Paige had when they walked in. 

“This girl fell and hit her head on the table,” Alexine deadpanned. “The paramedics have checked on it. She doesn’t have a concussion and she’ll be fine with some rest and monitoring. I’m gonna sleep with her, so you don’t have to worry.”

Paige looked at Alexine with narrow eyes. 

“You don’t gotta sleep with-”

“-I’m sleeping with you, end of discussion.” 

Josh came up to them and looked closer at Paige’s eye. 

“Oh and by the way Paige,” Alexine spoke up again. “Sue removed all your shifts this week so you can rest. And she will probably not let you work until you’re good again.”

Paige whipped her head to the side and frowned at her friend. 

“Bro, why.”

It wasn’t a question. She knew why. She just felt frustrated that they were making a bigger deal out of it than it was. 

“Go make yourself ready for bed and lay down,” Alexine ordered her, ignoring her annoyed face. 

This time, Paige didn’t argue. She went to the bathroom and locked herself in. 

“Josh,” Alexine spoke up when they were left alone. “I need to talk to you.”

She took him out of the apartment into the stairwell and looked at him with a serious face. 

“Do you not see how miserable your sister is?” Alex confronted him. 

Josh frowned at her implication of him being a somewhat neglectful brother. 

“She’s just heartbroken, it’ll pass,” he dismissed. A little too fast for Alex’s liking. 

“This isn’t normal, Josh,” she stated sternly. “She’s lost weight, she comes in late for work and she was literally about to punch a guy at work today, after having downed vodka shots the whole night. She’s not well.”

Josh swallowed and flicked his gaze away from Alexine’s. 

“Okay, so how do we fix this?” he sighed. 

“I don’t know, you tell me,” Alexine said. “You’re the one who broke her heart.”

“Are you serious right now?” He looked at her as if she was being crazy. 

“I am,” she said with no hesitation. 

“It’s not my fault she fucked my girlfriend behind my back,” he spat out angrily. “And lied to me for months. You think I should just shake it off and forget about it, as if it didn’t change the whole fucking way I see her?”

“That’s your fucking problem,” Alexine exclaimed. “You think this is about you when it’s really not. I get that you feel betrayed, I really do. But the way you’re punishing Paige like this has nothing to do with justice, and everything to do with stroking your own hurt ego. You wanna make sure that if you can’t have Azzi, then she can’t either.”

“So?” Josh gestured upset with his hands. “There’s a million other girls out there, why did it have to be Azzi? I’m not obligated to root for them. I don’t owe them my permission, not after this. You can say it’s my ego, but at the end of the day, they’re the ones who fucked up and now here’s the consequences.”

“No,” Alexine was fast with her comeback. “This is your consequence you’re giving them. Your punishment. Josh, you have to understand that what Paige and Azzi had was something real. What you and Azzi had was nowhere near what they had. Sucks to tell you like this, but it really wasn't. You were barely even here during your relationship, for God’s sake.”

“You want to justify the cheating with that?” Josh scoffed in disbelief. “Really, Alexine?”

Alexine sighed loudly and shook her head in frustration. 

“All I’m saying is that Paige is obviously not okay. She’s fucking depressed if you haven’t noticed. And there’s one obvious fucking solution to it, if you would just give a damn about your sister more than your hurt little ego,” she said calmly, yet poisonous. 

Josh just glared at her, but kept on listening. 

“She’s taken care of you since you were sixteen years old. She’s paid rent and groceries for years, she’s always met all of your fucking girlfriends, she’s literally raised you and she has done everything she could to make the best out of what you guys had. I understand that this changed the way you see her, but if that’s not proof enough that she’s really been an amazing sister to you throughout everything, then I don’t know what is. She made one mistake, Josh, and the mistake happened to be falling in love with your girlfriend.”

“And kissing her and fucking her and lying about it for months,” he added bitterly. 

“She’s given up so much for you,” Alexine said, ignoring his comment. “The least you could do is give her some grace and let her be happy.”

Josh swallowed harshly, as if his pride got stuck in his throat. He knew she was right. Deep down, he knew. 

But he would not admit it. Because at the end of the day, nothing in his eyes could justify what they had done to him. Just because he understood intellectually didn’t mean he agreed emotionally, and in his mind, his feelings should be the final word on the whole situation.

“I want her to be happy,” he said at last. “More than anything. Just not with Azzi.”

Alexine took a deep breath, but nodded. 

“Fine,” she said in defeat. “Just… think about what Paige would’ve done in your position. Would she punish you like this, or would she want you to be happy over everything?”

Josh dropped his gaze to the floor as her words sank in.

“I’m gonna sleep here tonight and take care of her. But if I could give you one more piece of advice, it would be to help her take a break. Go on a holiday or something, help her think about something else, cook some nice food together or whatever,” she said at last and walked into the apartment again. 

Josh’s feet were glued to the floor, his eyes as well. 

Things between him and Paige had been good. They had been normal. That was what he had been focused on. 

Of course he had noticed that she was a bit lower than usual, but he had just dismissed it as her guilt for being caught. 

She hadn’t brought up Azzi ever since their fight. 

If what Alexine had told him was true, it was bad. It was worse than he had thought. 

But it still wasn’t enough to change his mind. 

----

A couple of days later and Paige’s eye was still bruised and blue, just like her. 

Now that she wasn’t working, there wasn’t a minute that passed that Paige spent without wondering what Azzi was doing. 

Has she met someone new? 

Did she still think about her?

Making her own heart ache with those unanswered questions was starting to feel comforting. Like a ritual she needed to do every other minute or she would just panic. Her rumination anchored her. 

Yes, it held her stuck to the ground in one place, making it impossible to do anything but walk in circles. 

But Paige didn’t notice she was stuck. 

It got to a point where she wanted to feel the heartache just to feel anything at all.

There was no appetite without her. No taste, no flavor. 

She had even eaten a broccoli one day, just to feel alive for the one second the disgusting piece of vegetable was in her mouth. And it completely backfired. It was supposed to help her feel something else but the numbness - instead she was transported back to one of their first days together when Azzi had cooked dinner for them.

Her big brown eyes, looking at her in disbelief to Paige’s impudence. Her vanilla lavender shampoo scent in her curly hair, oozing over the whole apartment. And in the mornings when her face would look so soft, and she wore that oversized T-shirt with boxers or just her underwear. 

God.

Azzi, Azzi, Azzi. 

Her name echoed inside Paige’s head like an attempt to use telepathy for the first time in human history. 

Paige knew she wasn’t doing herself a favour by thinking this much about Azzi. But it didn’t feel like she had a choice. 

Sometimes she comforted herself with the delusion that when someone is on your mind, it’s because they’re thinking about you too. So either Paige was thinking about her because Azzi thought of her first, or Paige’s relentless thoughts would make Azzi think about her in return.

She was laying in bed one afternoon, just staring into the ceiling with her hands behind her head, daydreaming about a future with Azzi. 

She imagined them moving into a bigger apartment. Maybe they would get a dog, and an aquarium. Or maybe just a dog. Azzi would probably not want an aquarium. She would probably want two dogs instead. One big and one small. And she would call them her babies and talk about them as if they were her children. 

Paige and Alexine would eventually take over Velvet after Sue, and Azzi would use her degree to work in an organization she cared about. They would be busy with their work but they would always make time for each other and their relationship. 

And when they had become comfortable and settled with their new job positions, they would start to talk about having kids and how they would want to go about it. Maybe Azzi wanted to be the one to carry their children. 

God, just imagining a pregnant Azzi made Paige’s hair on her body stand up and her heart swell with emotions. 

Maybe they would move into a house with their kids, and Paige would take them to school every morning and drive them to basketball practice afterwards. Azzi would be the mom who made them eat broccoli, and Paige would be the one who made sure they did their homework. 

And when they would grow old together, maybe they could take over the farm and spend the last of their years together there. And their kids and grandkids could come visit, and Josh of course. Like one big happy family that-

“Hey, you wanna doordash something?” Josh appeared at her door, interrupting her train of thoughts. 

“Sure,” she said and kept staring up at the ceiling. 

Josh approached her bed and sat down on the edge of it, studying his sister’s bruised face. 

“Are you okay?” he carefully asked. 

“Yeah, just fine,” she answered without much thought. 

Josh pursed his lips together and flicked his gaze all over her face. She was closed off, and he had a hard time telling if she was being sincere or just dismissive. 

“Paige…” he started. “You can tell me if you’re not, you know? Even if it is about… her.”

Paige finally turned her head towards him slowly, and met his gaze. 

“I said I’m fine,” she repeated sternly. 

Her brother swallowed in hesitation.

“You don’t miss her?”

Paige almost wanted to laugh. 

“No, I don’t miss her,” she simply replied. 

Josh hummed in response, unsure what to do with that answer. 

“Alexine said that Sue didn’t want you working while you’re like this,” Josh spoke again. “Something is clearly not fine.”

“They’re making it into a bigger deal than what it is,” Paige sighed. “I’m literally fine. I just fell and hit my head.”

“After trying to punch a guy,” Josh chimed in. 

“Still don’t see anything wrong with that,” Paige muttered. “He was pissing me off.”

Josh frowned at her words. “Why don’t we go away for a while? I’ll take two weeks off, and we’ll go on a little holiday together?”

Paige shrugged and looked up at the ceiling again. 

“Come on. How about Greece?” he suggested enthusiastically. “Or Italy?”

Paige thought about it. 

Maybe it would help to get away for some time. Change the environment, see new people, hear a new language, eat good food and remove herself from her everyday life that now felt haunting. 

A little change couldn’t hurt. 

Besides, if she’s gonna miss Azzi, why not miss Azzi over in Europe instead?

“Yeah, that sounds good,” Paige said at last and nodded a little. “Might be nice to see something other than this gray city.”

“Great!” he exclaimed happily and patted her stomach with his hand. “We can book the tickets and the hotel tomorrow.”

“Sure.”

Josh left her alone to order some food, while Paige returned to her fantasies.

----

Both of the siblings had thought that the planned holiday was going to help Paige get her mind off of her sorrows, but they were both gravely mistaken.

Two days before they were set to board the plane to Greece, Paige’s presence seemed to shrink with each passing hour.

Josh saw how she barely ate now. Her face had lost all life and her eyes were dull. 

It broke his heart. 

And yet every time he would ask her how she was, she always replied the same.

“I’m fine,” she shrugged. 

“You haven’t eaten today,” Josh scolded her. “You have to eat, Paige.”

“I’m just not hungry,” she replied. 

Josh frowned at her. 

Alexine had been right. This wasn’t normal. 

“Paige please,” Josh pleaded. Paige was sitting on the couch, watching something on the TV. “Please talk to me.”

Paige turned her head to look at him. Her black eye was starting to disappear.

“What do you want me to say? Nothing’s wrong,” she said. 

At first glance, you would think Paige’s relentless lies were just stubbornness. But after having talked to Alexine, it had hit Josh what Paige was really doing. And it hit him hard, right between his ribs. 

She didn’t want him to feel guilty for separating them. She lied for him. She suffered in silence for him. 

He thought back to when they were kids, and he had accidentally hit their parents' car with a rock, leaving a visible dent on the side. Paige hadn’t even hesitated on taking the blame. Dad had grounded her for two weeks, and she just took it. 

Josh had walked into her room that night, tears in his eyes because of the guilt he felt to his brave big sister. She had just said: “This is why I can’t let you get in trouble Joshy. You’re already crying.” He had bolted into her bed and under the covers with her and cried against her chest. It wasn’t because he was sad. It was just overwhelming to live with his biggest hero and get to call her his sister. 

She had always been selfless. Had always put Josh first. Protected him when no one else had. 

She had spoiled him in every way she could. 

He never had to be strong, because Paige had always been strong enough for the both of them.

Alexine’s words rang louder than ever in his head now. Would Paige punish you like this, or would she want you to be happy over everything?

Guilt was contagious and a neverending cycle. 

But maybe Josh had been too caught up in his own interests to notice the way his sister was struggling. 

Maybe.

----

Azzi had just come home from shopping for groceries when her doorbell rang. 

She put the last of the items into the refrigerator before she hurried to the hall and opened her front door.

“Josh?” 

Her eyes widened in shock at the unexpected guest on the other side of the door, and she blinked to make sure she was seeing right.

“Hi Azzi,” her ex smiled shyly. “Can I come in?”

“Uh, sure,” she said and let him inside. “What’s up?”

Josh entered her home like he had been there before and took a comfortable seat on her couch. 

Azzi sat down on the other side of the couch, still looking at him like she couldn’t believe this was happening. Like she was seeing a ghost of the past she wasn’t prepared to see. 

“I need to ask you a couple of things,” he said.

Immediately, Azzi felt her heart sink. She hadn’t spoken to him ever since she had broken up with him. She had never apologized for cheating on him. 

“Okay,” she swallowed.

He took a deep breath and looked at her with a serious face.

“What you and Paige had, what was that?”

Azzi blinked, trying to process what he was asking her. 

She studied his face with a neutral face, trying to understand what he was doing there in her home. 

What she and Paige had had was everything. It was heated, it was tender, it was passionate, it was soft, it was pointy that could inflict pain, it was safe, it was deep, it was beautiful and it was imperfect. 

It was a home in another person that allowed Azzi to be herself and let her guard down. It was arms that always held her without being asked to. It was a beauty that was nothing but a privilege to be a part of, and it was a woman who held so much love that Azzi wanted to be everything for her and to her. 

“It was… everything I could’ve ever wanted,” she told him. 

Josh looked down on the floor for a second before he looked up at her again. Azzi could tell he was hurt by her words. 

“I’m sorry,” she exhaled. “I didn’t get the chance to say that to you, Josh. But I really am sorry.”

He shook his head and waved her off. 

“You’re not who I’m most mad at,” he swallowed, his words betrayed by the tears welling in the corners of his eyes. “But I appreciate it.”

“Still,” Azzi said. “You didn’t deserve that. I fucked it all up. For the both of you. And maybe it doesn’t mean anything to you, but I really regret it.”

“You do?” he raised his eyebrows.

“Of course I do,” she nodded. “I wouldn’t ever want to hurt you, Josh. But it happened, and nothing can really justify what I did.”

“Would it have happened if I hadn’t gone to Europe?” he suddenly asked. 

Azzi let out a slow breath, searching for the right words.

“I don’t know…” she said honestly. “But even if you had stayed, I think things still would’ve changed. Maybe it wouldn’t have happened like this, but I think it was only a matter of time before I fell in love with your sister anyway. She just… got under my skin. And I think she would’ve, no matter what.”

Josh sighed a heavy sigh. 

“So you’re really in love with my sister, huh?”

Azzi huffed with a small smile. 

“Yeah, I am,” she confessed softly. 

“And you really do love her?” 

“More than anything.”

Josh took a deep breath and started to reach for something in his pocket. 

It was a piece of paper. 

He smoothed it out and held it out towards Azzi. But before she could take it and see what it was, he quickly pulled it back and spoke up again.

“I just got one last thing to say to you before I give you this,” he looked at her with laser focus. 

“Okay,” she swallowed nervously. 

His soft eyes suddenly looked guarded. 

“If you hurt my sister, I’ll never forgive you.”

----

Paige was mindlessly walking through the duty free area on her way to the gate. There were endless of books, snacks and perfumes on the shelves all around her. The sound of every spoken language was hitting her ears like honey to her throat, and she could feel something deep inside her stomach start to stir. 

She had always loved being in airports. They always sparked the feeling that a new adventure was just around the corner, and they never failed to stir a few butterflies in her stomach.

All kinds of people from all over the world gathered in one place. Some were on their way to new beginnings. Some were going home. Some were waiting for a loved one. It was a place that made space for every age, every story and every kind of lifestyle. 

Josh had told her to go through the security and wait for him at the gate since he was gonna get there with a taxi after work. He said that, in case he would be a little bit late, Paige could just hold the plane for him. Paige had rolled her eyes but her lips had twitched a little into a small smile. 

There was one hour left before boarding, and Paige was waiting for Josh at the gate. She read Jane Eyre, her favorite book that she had read at least five times already. It always felt like she traveled through time with it - back to Jane Eyre’s time, or back to her early teenage years when she had read it her first time after her mom had given Paige her own copy of the book.

As time went on, Paige looked at her phone to see if Josh had texted her any updates on where he was. 

He had promised to not miss it. 

But now there was only twenty minutes left til boarding, and he was still a no show. 

Paige Bueckers: boarding in 20, you better be through security by now 

Paige Bueckers: i swear to god, if you make me board this plane alone, i’m gonna kill you

Delivered. 

She didn’t even give it a minute before she felt the panic consume her. 

If he wasn’t here now, he probably wasn’t gonna make it.

Paige called him.

No answer.

“Fuck Josh, answer the fucking phone,” she mumbled angrily to herself as she saw people starting to stand up, getting ready to board. 

Ten minutes spent on trying to reach her brother who had seemed to disappear from the face of the earth, and ten minutes left until she had to board. 

She grabbed her backpack and walked up to the desk. 

“Hi, sorry,” she spoke to the gate agent behind the desk. “Um, I’m waiting on my brother who’s supposed to be here now, but I’m just wondering if it’s possible to hold the gate open for a while in case he’s just five minutes late or so?”

The woman behind the desk gave her a polite smile.

“Do you know his whereabouts? If he’s passed security?” she asked Paige.

“Uh, no, I’m not sure,” Paige pursed her lips together. “He’s not answering his phone.”

The woman pressed her lips into a thin line as well and slowly shook her head. 

“I’m afraid we can’t hold the gate for more than a few minutes, but if he hasn’t passed through security by now, it’s not very likely he’ll make it.”

“Fuck, okay,” Paige sighed. “Thank you anyway.”

What was she gonna do now? Should she just board and hope Josh gets there in time, or not board at all? 

She could easily travel by herself to Greece, but it wasn’t what she had planned. What was she gonna do all alone in Greece anyway? Wallow in grief on the beach? 

Paige turned around with a heavy heart and a settling disappointment. 

Of course this was happening. 

Nothing had gone the way she had wanted for the last couple of months, why would it change now?

She started to walk over to an unoccupied seat. 

But for some reason, something in her periphery caught her eye, and she turned her head almost ninety degrees.

And from the other side of the gate, brown eyes met blue ones. 

Paige completely froze. Her breath hitched, and she held it, afraid to even blink.