You're Not Alone Out Here

By Jamie F. Bell

Ezra, haunted by the specters of past Christmases, struggles to find his footing on the spring track. His internal winter clashes with the blossoming world around him, until the steady, intense presence of Will, his team captain, begins to thaw the edges of his isolation.

The air, for all its sharp bite of early spring, still smelled like old snow in Ezra’s memory. Not the fresh, clean kind, but the grey, packed stuff that clung to the shadowed corners of buildings, refusing to melt even when the crocuses dared to push through the dirt. It was a lie, this bright sun, this insistent chirping of birds. He knew better. Underneath, there was always the cold, always the lingering chill of last December. Always. He leaned against the rough concrete wall bordering the track, the chill seeping through his thin training shirt, a tangible reminder that even warmth was fleeting, a temporary reprieve.

He was supposed to be running. Another set of intervals, another attempt to shave off fractions of seconds that felt like miles. But the spikes on his feet felt heavy, anchored not to the ground, but to some invisible, crushing weight. Every breath burned, not from exertion, but from the tightness in his chest that had settled there sometime around Thanksgiving and just… hadn't left. Coach had said something about focus, about commitment. Easy words for a man who probably had a warm house, a family who didn’t look at him like he was a broken ornament, too fragile to touch, too chipped to display.

His gaze drifted past the meticulously painted lanes, past the distant bleachers, to the faint green blush on the oak trees at the edge of the campus. New life. Everything moving forward. Except him. He pictured the Christmas lights, the ones his mother had insisted on hanging, glittering like shards of ice against the pre-dawn dark. How he’d stared at them, the illusion of joy, the way they hid the cracked paint on the porch, the silence inside the house. His brother, usually so boisterous, had barely spoken. His dad, quiet, always quiet, had somehow become even quieter, a ghost at their own table. Ezra had been too young then to name the suffocating feeling, but he knew it now: absence. A vast, echoing absence where laughter used to be.

A scuff of running shoes against the track. Not his. He hadn’t moved. The sound was deliberate, rhythmic, approaching. His shoulders stiffened, a familiar tension knotting between his shoulder blades. He didn't need to look to know. Will. Always Will. The team captain, the one who moved with an effortless power Ezra envied, a kind of internal calibration that never wavered. Will, who always seemed to know exactly where Ezra was, even when Ezra himself felt utterly lost.

“Rough day for a sprint, huh?” Will’s voice was low, a quiet rumble that resonated through the concrete wall Ezra leaned against. He didn’t sound accusatory, just… observant. That was Will’s way. He saw things. Too much. Ezra swallowed, the dryness in his throat sudden and sharp. He forced a shrug, a casualness he didn’t feel, pushing off the wall to stand straighter, to project an image of preparedness he was far from possessing. His heart, already thrumming with a nervous rhythm, picked up speed.

“Just… cold,” Ezra managed, the lie feeling flimsy even to his own ears. He avoided Will’s direct gaze, focusing instead on the frayed edge of his shoelace, then the precise, worn texture of the track’s surface. He could feel Will’s presence, a warmth radiating even from a few feet away, a stark contrast to the cold memory he’d been nursing. It was like standing too close to a roaring fire—comforting but also slightly overwhelming, a heat that threatened to consume. His cheeks felt hot, a flush creeping up his neck.

Will didn’t respond immediately, just shifted his weight, the subtle movement drawing Ezra's attention even more. He was wearing his usual faded grey hoodie, the sleeves pushed up to reveal strong forearms. His expression was unreadable, a quiet intensity in his dark eyes that always made Ezra feel both seen and exposed. “Cold, yeah,” Will finally murmured, his gaze sweeping over Ezra, lingering a fraction too long on the way Ezra’s fingers were unconsciously digging into the fabric of his own shorts. “Or something else? You’ve been… off. Since before break. It’s still hanging on.”

The bluntness stung, though Ezra knew it wasn’t meant maliciously. Will simply stated facts, an athlete’s precision applied to human emotion. Ezra’s breath hitched, a small, involuntary sound he instantly regretted. He cleared his throat, pushing his hands into his pockets, trying to anchor himself. “It’s nothing. Just… spring training. Gets to everyone.” He hated how his voice sounded, thin and reedy, a pale imitation of the confidence he usually faked. He wanted to escape, to run, but his feet felt glued. He felt trapped in the intensity of Will's quiet attention.

“Not everyone’s splits look like they’re running in sand,” Will said, his voice still even, but with an underlying current that demanded attention. He took a step closer, and Ezra’s entire body tensed, a prickle of electricity running down his spine. It was a familiar sensation, this hyper-awareness of Will, the way his proximity seemed to alter the very air around them, making it thicker, charged. Ezra’s gaze darted up, meeting Will’s for a fleeting second. The depth there, the unwavering concern, was almost too much to bear. He ducked his head again, focusing on the scuff mark on Will's worn running shoes.

“I’m fine. Just… working through some stuff,” Ezra mumbled, the words clumping together in his mouth. He felt a sudden, inexplicable urge to tell Will everything, to lay bare the ache, the emptiness that had settled in his bones. The memory of last Christmas resurfaced, sharp and clear: his mother’s forced smile, his father’s distant stare, the silence broken only by the crackle of a log in the fireplace, a sound that amplified the quiet rather than filled it. No presents, not really. Just a few perfunctory exchanges, wrapped in polite apathy. The worst part was the way he’d felt, a ghost in his own house, waiting for someone to notice he was fading, and no one ever did.

He flinched internally, shaking his head slightly, trying to dislodge the image. He couldn’t—wouldn’t—burden Will with that. Will, who seemed so solid, so sure. “It’s just… it’s a bad time of year for me. Always is.” He regretted saying even that much. It sounded pathetic. He could practically feel Will’s gaze, dissecting him, cataloging every micro-expression of distress. It made his skin crawl, but also, in a strange, terrifying way, it felt… warm.

Will took another step, closing the distance between them, and Ezra found himself backing up instinctively, hitting the wall again. He couldn't move further. Will reached out, his hand hovering for a second, then settling gently on Ezra's shoulder. The touch was light, yet it felt like a jolt, sending a shiver through Ezra’s whole body. It wasn't cold, not like the memory, but a searing heat that spread from the point of contact, down his arm, into his chest. His breath caught.

“Bad time of year? It’s April, Ezra,” Will said, his voice softer now, almost a whisper, his thumb brushing lightly against the fabric of Ezra's shirt, a tiny, repetitive motion that sent tremors through him. The casual, almost unconscious intimacy of the touch was overwhelming. Ezra’s eyes widened, locking with Will’s. He saw something there, a flicker of understanding, an empathy that made his own carefully constructed walls feel like they were crumbling to dust. He could practically hear the echo of sleigh bells in his head, a mocking sound from that desolate Christmas.

“It’s… it’s complicated,” Ezra mumbled, his voice barely audible. He wanted to lean into the touch, to absorb the warmth, but every instinct screamed at him to pull away, to protect the fragile, hurting thing inside him. He felt the rapid flutter of his pulse in his throat, a frantic bird trapped in a cage. Will’s gaze was unwavering, dark and deep, seeing past the bravado, past the nervous fidgeting, right into the core of Ezra’s raw, exposed hurt.

“Complicated I can understand,” Will said, his hand still on Ezra’s shoulder, a grounding weight. “But you’re out here, alone, letting it eat at you. That’s not complicated. That’s… unnecessary.” He paused, and his eyes, which had been so intense, softened just a fraction. “You don’t have to carry it by yourself, Ezra. Whatever it is. Not here. Not with me.”

The words were simple, yet they hit Ezra with the force of a physical blow, stealing the air from his lungs. *You don’t have to carry it by yourself.* It was the antithesis of every silent Christmas he’d endured, every year he’d watched his family retreat into their own private sorrows, leaving him to navigate the gaping holes in their festive facade alone. He felt a sting behind his eyes, a desperate, raw emotion bubbling up, threatening to spill over.

He wanted to break away, to deny it all, but Will’s grip, though gentle, felt strangely absolute. It held him in place, anchoring him against the swirling vortex of his memories. He noticed the faint scent of damp earth and something clean, almost metallic, from Will’s skin, a scent that was uniquely Will, uniquely grounding. It cut through the phantom smell of stale pine and something indefinable, like old grief, that clung to his Christmas memories. He found himself focusing on the rhythm of Will’s breathing, trying to match it, trying to find a steady beat for his own frantic heart.

“It’s… the holidays,” Ezra finally whispered, the words ragged, barely escaping his throat. He felt the tremor in his own voice, the betraying crack that exposed more than any confession could. “Christmas. It’s never… good. Not since…” He trailed off, unable to articulate the full scope of the loss, the slow, quiet disintegration of his family’s joy. It wasn’t a dramatic, cinematic tragedy. It was a slow decay, a growing silence, more painful in its insidious normalcy.

Will didn’t interrupt, just watched him, his expression one of patient understanding. He shifted his hand, and for a terrifying second, Ezra thought he was going to pull away. Instead, Will’s fingers slid down Ezra’s arm, a feather-light touch, until they rested over Ezra’s hand, still balled into a fist in his pocket. He didn’t try to prise Ezra’s fingers open, just covered them, a steady warmth enveloping Ezra’s trembling hand. The contact was intimate, startling in its tenderness. Ezra felt a wave of heat wash over him, a blush deepening his already flushed cheeks.

“Loss can hit hardest when everyone else expects you to be happy,” Will murmured, his voice still low, empathetic. He didn’t say 'I know how you feel,' or offer any platitudes. He simply acknowledged the truth of Ezra’s suffering, creating a space for it, for him. It was a profound relief, an unexpected easing of the pressure in Ezra’s chest, as if a tight band had finally loosened. He hadn’t realized how much he’d been bracing, how much he’d been fighting against the tide of his own grief.

Ezra’s fingers twitched under Will’s hand, a sudden, almost uncontrollable urge to grip back, to cling to that steady warmth. He saw the subtle movement in Will’s eyes, a shift as if Will had felt the impulse, too. The unspoken connection, the silent understanding that passed between them, felt almost too intense. It was like a sudden, unexpected current, pulling them closer, an electric pull he couldn’t fight, wouldn’t fight, not anymore. Not right now.

He finally managed to look at Will fully, his gaze meeting Will’s without flinching. There was no judgment, only that quiet, unwavering strength, a promise of something steadfast in a world that felt constantly shifting. “I… I just can’t get it out of my head,” Ezra confessed, the words tumbling out, almost a gasp. “The quiet. The way they looked… like I wasn’t there. Like I was just… another piece of furniture.” His voice cracked on the last word, and he felt the sting in his eyes intensify. He blinked, trying to hold back the tears, mortified at the vulnerability.

Will didn’t move, didn’t try to console him with empty words. He simply squeezed Ezra’s hand, a firm, reassuring pressure. “You’re not invisible, Ezra,” he said, his voice deep, resonating with a quiet conviction. “And you’re not furniture. You’re… everything but.” He paused, his gaze dropping to their joined hands, then back up to Ezra’s eyes. “It’s spring. You can… let some of that old snow melt, you know? It’s okay to feel the sun.”

The metaphor, simple as it was, hit Ezra deeply. He’d been holding onto that grey, packed snow for so long, trying to prove he could endure the cold, not realizing it was slowly freezing him from the inside. He thought of the track, the endless loops, the self-imposed torment of striving for perfection while carrying a lead weight in his soul. Will’s words, his steady presence, were like the first real warmth he’d felt in months. He felt a tiny, almost imperceptible shift inside him, a thawing, a loosening of the ice around his heart.

He took a shaky breath, the air filling his lungs feeling a little less heavy, a little more clean. He didn’t know how to respond, how to articulate the profound gratitude, the sudden, terrifying hope that bloomed in his chest. He just looked at Will, memorizing the planes of his face, the intensity of his eyes, the gentle curve of his lips, the way the light caught the dark strands of his hair. Will was real. Solid. Present. And for the first time in a long time, Ezra didn’t feel quite so alone.

“I… I should probably run those intervals,” Ezra finally managed, his voice still a little hoarse, but with a new, fragile strength. He pulled his hand from Will’s, a sudden, sharp pang of loss at the absence of the warmth, but Will’s hand didn’t retreat far, just lingered, close, a silent promise. Ezra stepped away from the wall, his legs feeling a little lighter, a little less like lead. He looked at Will, a question in his eyes.

Will nodded, a small, knowing smile playing on his lips. “Yeah. You should. And I’ll be here.” He didn’t specify 'where', but Ezra knew. Will would be on the track, near the finish line, or maybe just watching from the sidelines, a constant, unwavering presence. The knowledge was both terrifying and exhilarating. Ezra turned, walked to the starting line, felt the familiar give of the track under his spikes. He took a deep breath, picturing not the grey snow, but the new green shoots, the insistent push of life against the lingering cold. He heard Will’s voice, a quiet, steady encouragement, just as he pushed off into a sprint, the world blurring around him, and for a moment, the ache in his chest was replaced by the burning desire to simply run, to feel the wind, to prove that he wasn’t broken, not entirely. But then, as he rounded the bend, a sharp, twisting pain shot up his left ankle, the old injury flaring, causing him to stumble, a strangled cry escaping his lips as he crumpled to the ground, the track suddenly feeling impossibly hard and unforgiving.