Falling Pieces

The night air clung to Daren’s skin long after he and Kai had left the underground ring. The echo of cheers, fists colliding, and that one stranger’s eyes still burned inside him. You don’t belong here, but you were meant to come. The words, barely whispered in passing, followed him through the narrow alleyways like a shadow.

Kai walked ahead, shoulders bouncing with reckless energy. “See? I told you it wasn’t a waste. Did you see that last knockout? Guy dropped like a sack of bricks—”

Daren slowed his pace, not answering.

Kai glanced back, frowning. “What’s up with you? You’ve been zoned out ever since that match.”

“I… don’t know,” Daren muttered. He shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, the damp night air biting at his knuckles. “That guy—one of the older ones—he said something. It felt like…” He trailed off, unsure how to explain the unease twisting his chest.

Kai raised an eyebrow. “What, some drunk creep mumbling at you, and now you’re acting like it’s fate?” He gave a short laugh, but there was no real humor in it. “You overthink too much, man. That’s your problem. Just enjoy the rush.”

But Daren didn’t enjoy it. The sound of fists breaking bone, the spray of sweat, the eyes of strangers—it wasn’t excitement he carried. It was something heavier. Something that felt like a warning.

When he finally reached home, the silence pressed harder than the noise of the fights. He dropped his jacket onto the floor and collapsed into the chair by his desk. His phone lit up with Asla’s name—five unread messages.

He picked it up, thumb hovering over the screen. The last one blinked at him:

“We need to talk. Tomorrow. Please don’t ignore this.”

He swallowed hard. Their last argument replayed in his head—her voice breaking, accusing him of drifting, of hiding things from her. And she was right. He was hiding something. From her, from Kai, maybe even from himself.

He turned the phone face down, staring instead at the worn notebook on his desk. Scribbled thoughts, half-finished sketches, notes written in restless hours filled its pages. But tonight, as he flipped it open, his breath caught.

A fresh page, his own handwriting—but words he didn’t remember writing:

The world is breaking at the edges. Memory is a lie. Not all friends are meant to last. Look closer, Daren.

The pen slipped from his fingers.

He whispered aloud, “What the hell is happening to me?”

The words weren’t just strange—they felt like an intrusion. Like someone had reached through his hand and left a warning.

Pieces. That’s what it felt like. Fragments of his life falling around him—things he thought were solid crumbling under invisible cracks.

His phone buzzed again. A new message from Asla:

“If you care, meet me at the bridge tomorrow. Sunset.”

He closed his eyes, exhaling a shaky breath. The bridge. Their place. Where things had once felt whole.

Kai’s words still echoed in his mind: “You overthink too much.”

But the stranger’s voice was louder: “You were meant to come.”

When Daren finally lay down, sleep came late, broken and restless. Dreams, if they were dreams, dragged him into warped streets burning with fire. He saw Asla turning away from him, her outline fading like smoke, while shadows stretched across the ground, reaching for him.

He woke with a jolt, breath ragged, shirt damp with sweat. Outside, the city looked unchanged. But inside, something had shifted.

The pieces were falling. And tomorrow, at the bridge, he would find out whether they would scatter forever—or fit into something new

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