It was Saturday, and I sat at my desk, powerless.
I don't mean weak in the physical sense; I mean hollow in the way that silence feels when it's too big for the room you're in. When the Nexus lived under my skin, the world was layered — every sound, every heartbeat, every flicker of energy brushing against the edges of my awareness.
Now there's just one rhythm left: mine. It beats alone, heavy and awkward, like a clock trying to keep time after the batteries start to die.
The room around me feels louder without the hum that used to fill it. The fan on my desk wobbles. The light buzzes. The scratch of my pencil sounds like thunder against paper.
Another thing that was left with my power was theirs — Booker's, Aaliah's.The moment the Nexus was drained from me, it took the tether with it. I was the conduit; without me, their gifts went dark. They try to hide the frustration, but I see it — in Booker's clenched jaw when he practices football drills, in Aaliah's way of avoiding the mirror when she thinks no one's looking.
Honestly, I've been emotional — too emotional. Most of my time since escaping Sentinel has been spent crying in private, walking through days that don't feel like they belong to me, and pretending school matters when my head is still stuck in a containment cell.
And the court. Always court.
Apparently, it's illegal to break out of containment when you're under Sentinel Solutions' "safety protocol. "They called it an escape from protective custody. I called it freedom.
The hearings dragged on for weeks. Cameras. Lawyers. A sea of gray suits debating if a sixteen-year-old with cosmic residue in his bloodstream counted as human enough to be protected by normal law. In the end, the court declared me innocent — "due to complications."
The complication was that Sentinel had overstepped. Their protocols had caused "undue psychological harm to a minor." That's what the file said. To me, it just meant they hurt me too much to win.
A soft knock came from the other side of my bedroom door. It was my mom.
"Kaleb—"
"I'm fine, Mom," I lied.
She cracked the door anyway, stepping inside like she always did when she didn't believe me. She sat on the edge of my desk, the same way she used to when I was younger — when the world was simple and bedtime stories were enough to drown out fear.
"I know the past few weeks have been rough," she said gently. "But life goes on."
Her words hung there, thin and fragile.
I stared at the open textbook in front of me, pages blurring together. "Mom, I just want to study for my final."
She sighed — that small, tired exhale that says more than words ever could — and brushed her fingers through my hair. "It's healing," she murmured, tracing the line where my stitches had been.
"Mom, would you please? I'm studying."
She smiled softly, kissed the side of my head, and wrapped her arms around me in a quick hug before standing to leave.
The moment she was gone, the quiet folded back over me like a blanket I didn't want.
Seconds later, the door creaked open again.
Booker stepped in, his expression hesitant. "I know I said I wouldn't bring it up again, but—"
I turned to face him before he could finish. "I don't want to, Booker. It's over. They won."
He blinked, caught off guard. "But our powers—"
"What can I, let alone we, do about it!?" I snapped.
The words came out sharper than I meant them to. He froze, mouth half open, then turned silently and walked out, closing the door behind him.
I stared at the space he left and whispered to no one, "I'm sorry, Booker."
My phone buzzed against the desk, lighting up with a familiar name. Malique.
I answered. "Hey."
His voice came through casual but careful, the way people talk when they don't know what will break you. "How have you been holding up?"
"I'm fine," I said — another lie stacked on top of the last one.
He paused. "How come you never said you had superpowers?"
I looked out the window. The clouds outside were heavy, pale with the promise of rain. How could I even begin to answer that?
"I don't know," I said softly. "I was scared, I guess."
"Yeah," he said after a beat. "Guess I would be too."
We talked for a while — about school, teachers, how the homecoming dance got rescheduled, about nothing that mattered, and everything that kept things feeling normal. When the call ended, I just sat there, staring at the blank reflection on my screen.
Dinner was quiet.
Mom cooked like she was trying to summon normalcy through the smell of food. The table was set, the same seats as always, the same routine. But it wasn't the same. Dad was still gone — off on another Sentinel-sanctioned mission halfway around the world, trying to stop whatever new scheme the Harbingers were planning. Nobody knew what those monsters were doing anymore, only that they hadn't stopped moving.
And then there was Breaker . I'd run into him a few weeks ago after school. He said I wasn't a target anymore — the Nexus was gone, and with it, any reason for them to come after me.
I should've felt relief. Instead, all I could think was that without me, the Nexus had no one left to protect it.
I poked at my food, forcing myself to take a few bites. The silence stretched until Mom finally said, "So, how's school?"
Aaliah perked up. "I got an A on my science project!"
Booker added, "My football team made it to the state championship."
I looked up. "Finals are next week."
Mom smiled, trying to pull warmth back into the room. "Well, all of that sounds wonderful."
None of us believed her, but nobody said otherwise.
I excused myself early. "Thanks for dinner," I said, half-heartedly.
"Kaleb—"
"I am fi—"
"Goodnight," Mom interrupted softly.
I forced a smile and nodded, leaving before the weight of the unspoken things crushed what little appetite I had left.
Back in my room, I sat at the foot of my bed, letting the quiet soak in. The house hummed faintly — the sound of rain starting on the roof, the rhythm of normal life carrying on without permission.
Then, a soft crack against my window.
I frowned, walked over, half expecting to see Malique throwing pebbles like he used to. But when I pushed the curtain aside, it wasn't him.
It was Sariya.
She stood in the yard, hair damp from the drizzle, one hand raised in a small, nervous wave. For the first time in weeks, I smiled — not a big one, just enough to remember what it felt like.
I held up a finger — one second — locked my door, slid the window open, and grabbed the rope ladder I still hadn't put away since the last time someone used it.
"Don't fall," I muttered as she climbed, which of course meant she immediately tripped over the ledge and tumbled into me.
We both laughed — awkward, quiet, real.
"Sorry," she said, brushing rain off her sleeves.
"It's fine," I said, rubbing my shoulder. "What made you show up at this time?"
"The past few weeks," she said softly. "You've been acting weird. You say you're fine, but I know that's just a mask."
"Yeah, well, this isn't anything normal and—"
She put her finger to my lips, the same way she had on the bus that morning before everything fell apart.
Then she hugged me.
Not the quick, polite kind — the kind that says I know you're breaking, but you're not alone.
"I took enough therapy to know when someone isn't okay," she whispered.
Her hair smelled faintly of rain and lavender. My arms tightened around her without me realizing.
Outside, thunder rolled softly. The rain picked up, tapping against the glass, washing the world in gray.
For a long moment, neither of us said anything. Time slowed. The air felt still.
And for the first time since the Nexus was taken from me, I let myself feel something without trying to fight it.
When she finally pulled away, her hand lingered on my cheek. "Get some sleep," she said.
I nodded. "Yeah."
She smiled — small, knowing — and disappeared back down the ladder into the rain.
The window shut behind her with a sound that felt too final.
But her warmth stayed, echoing in the room even after she was gone.
Later, I sat at my desk again, the same one where this day started. The same stack of books, the same half-empty mug of coffee, the same quiet hum of nothingness.
I opened my journal — a blank page staring back like it expected me to make sense of things.
The words came slowly, unevenly.
Sometimes you relinquish yourself, but never your essence.
I stared at the sentence until the ink started to blur.
Then I closed the book, leaned back in my chair, and whispered into the quiet, "I hope that's true."