"Ha, hahaha."
Ryder's carefree and genuine laughter rang out across the diner.
It drew the attention of the arguing Italian couple—and also that of the night-shift manager, whose gaze swiftly turned in their direction.
Lance was about to stand up when Ryder quickly grabbed his left hand resting on the table, stopping him. She turned to the manager and said, "The custor just gave a tip. Sorry, I couldn't hold it in."
Lance noticed she'd straightened her back, subtly blocking his figure from view. Clearly, she didn't want the manager to realize the Super Bowl MVP was here.
The manager glanced over. Seeing the custor behind her didn't protest, he lowered his head and went back to scrolling his phone.
Ryder exhaled slowly. "Last ti a New York Jets player ca in, he hung around that guy for thirty minutes like a fly. Nearly made the guy flip the table."
So that's what happened.
Lance sighed. "Wow. Who was it?"
Ryder waved her hand. "Not sure. Seed like a special teams player."
Lance: …
Ryder: …
Their eyes t. Both of their mouths curled into knowing smiles. Quiet chuckles escaped them.
After a pause, Ryder asked, "So what does depression feel like?"
Lance was a bit surprised, but on second thought, not really. Clearly, this was sothing weighing on Ryder's mind—sothing she cared deeply about.
So might wonder why she'd ask such a personal question to a stranger.
But in reality, so conversations are easier with strangers than with friends or family. No expectations, no consequences—like whispering secrets into a tree hollow that the wind will carry away.
No footprints. No damage.
This ti—
Lance didn't deflect. He thought back carefully.
Outside of the field, there was another version of himself—real, breathing, imperfect. The world often defined him by his performance, but football was just one part of life. Everyone has burdens. Everyone gets lost.
"It's kind of like…"
"Like you forget what normal feels like. And then you do things that you think might make you feel better—but they don't."
"They just make it worse."
"And the things that might actually help? You're terrified of them. But that's the problem—you can't bring yourself to do them."
"And so… you get stuck."
His tone was calm. Even smiling. But there was unmistakable bitterness beneath the surface.
Ryder froze.
She blinked, hiding the storm inside, and took a deep breath.
"My mom…" she said. "She has bipolar disorder."
"Sotis she's glowing—so happy it's like she lights up the world. But other tis, she's just curled up in bed. Won't eat. Won't move. Like she's hiding from everything."
Ryder glanced at Lance—
There was no pity. No judgnt. Just a quiet, equal gaze—listening.
It made Ryder smile.
"I rember once, I asked her the sa question."
"She told … sotis it's easier to be sad. But she tries. Really, really hard."
"But…"
Her voice trailed off. Her smile faded a little.
Lance understood that helplessness.
He offered a small, wry grin. "Depression convinces your brain that so things aren't real. But sotis, I wish people like your mom could believe other voices—not the ones in their head."
"The good ones. The right ones."
"Like a daughter who's scared and cares about her."
Ryder's eyes widened. She looked at Lance, caught off guard, and quickly looked away. Her smile was shy, eyes flustered, cheeks flushed. She rubbed at her face and smiled through it.
"You know what you look like right now?"
Lance pretended not to notice her fluster. "No."
"You look like the kindest person in the world."
"Kind? Not handso? Wait, so I'm getting the 'nice guy' card right now?"
Pfft.
Ryder burst out laughing. Her eyes lit up as she watched Lance's mock betrayal and sorrow, her laughter only growing.
But—she didn't deny it.
Lance's smile grew. "You know what you look like right now?"
Ryder nearly choked on her own spit, waving him off. "Nope. I don't want to know—I don't care." But her eyes sparkled. "Everything feels so perfect right now. I don't want to ss it up. Only thing I want to fix is this pain in my elbow."
Lance blinked. "Your elbow? Tennis elbow? Oh no—are you the next Sharapova or sothing?"
"Ha, hahaha!" Ryder laughed freely. "I'm not a tennis player. I, uh, I'm an actress. Well, sort of. I've only been on Broadway once."
"Whoa, Broadway?" Lance looked impressed.
But Ryder turned a bit shy, clearly not wanting to linger on that. "The elbow—it's because we've been leaning on the counter…"
She lifted her arms to show him her elbows—
They'd been resting their arms on the counter while chatting, munching on popsicles. Ti had slipped away.
Lance hadn't even noticed. Until now.
He looked down at his own elbows, puzzled, then up at Ryder's bashful smile. Then he extended his hands, palms up, placing them beneath her elbows.
Ryder rested her elbows again—this ti on Lance's palms.
The cold, hard surface was replaced by warm, gentle support.
Startled, Ryder twitched. But when she saw Lance's warm, questioning smile, she relaxed again.
Lance could feel her arms trembling. He swore he could hear her heartbeat, racing in rhythm with his own. But neither of them moved. They just looked at each other.
Their reflections danced in each other's eyes.
And then—without warning—
Their hearts skipped a beat.
Both quickly looked away, pretending to examine sothing else. But Ryder's gaze still drifted back to Lance—and caught his, lingering at the edge of her vision.
Their eyes locked again.
Startled.
They both looked away—again. But this ti, smiling.
The quiet connection of elbows and palms seed to synchronize their heartbeats.
Ryder turned toward the window, flustered, trying to escape the tension—but noticed the faint orange hue beginning to spread across the surface of the Hudson River.
The dark was fading. Slowly.
The mystery of the night, the magic, the surreal quality of a dream—it was all lting away with the morning light.
"Ah… the sun's coming up."
----------
Powerstones?
For 20 advance chapters: patreon/michaeltranslates
Reviews
All reviews (0)