Strings Between Us

Chapter Seven – The Fire Inside

Chicago smelled like winter that day—snow, wet coats, the sharp bite of cold air. Keisha and Mariah walked out of volleyball practice, the gym lights still buzzing behind them.

Mariah nudged her. “You’ve been quiet all day. Spill.”

Keisha hesitated, then blurted, “I saw Dylan liked some girl’s picture. And I… I got mad.”

Mariah’s laugh echoed in the street. “Wait, mad? Girl, you don’t even date him!”

“I know!” Keisha groaned, pulling her scarf tighter. “It’s stupid. He’s not mine, but… the thought of him smiling at someone else—ugh.”

Mariah’s smirk softened. “Sounds like you caught feelings, bestie. Admit it.”

Keisha didn’t answer. But her silence said enough.

Santo Domingo heat

Meanwhile, under the burning Caribbean sun, Dylan was in the middle of scrimmage. Sweat poured down his temples, but his mind wasn’t on the ball—it was on Keisha. On her laugh. On the way she typed “lmao” too much. On that green-eyed guy.

“¡Dylan! Pass the ball!” Mateo yelled.

Dylan snapped back, threw the ball—too hard. It smacked against another teammate’s chest.

“¡Oye! ¿Qué te pasa, loco?”

Coach blew the whistle, furious. “You think NBA scouts gonna look at you like this? Get your head straight, carajo!”

But Dylan’s chest was burning. He yelled back before he could stop himself:

“I am focused! You don’t know what I carry!”

The gym went silent. Nobody had ever seen him lose it like that.

Later, the storm inside

In the locker room, Dylan punched the metal door so hard his knuckles bled. He stared at the blood, panting, whispering to himself:

“She’s there… I’m here. Why it gotta hurt like this?”

Mateo sat beside him quietly. “Bro… maybe it’s love.”

Dylan shook his head violently. “Nah. I told you—I don’t believe in that.”

But deep down, the word stuck.

Chicago again

That night, Keisha lay under her blanket, scrolling. Dylan hadn’t posted all day. She typed to Mariah:

“What if he stops talking to me?”

Mariah replied:

“Then you’ll realize how much you actually care. Don’t wait too long to tell him, girl.”

Keisha hugged her pillow tight. Her stomach twisted. She hated the idea of losing him—more than she hated the snow, more than anything.

And across the ocean, Dylan sat with bandaged knuckles, phone in hand, typing and erasing the same words over and over:

“Keisha… I don’t know what this is, but it’s killing me.”

He didn’t send it. Not yet.