Rocco-s Pov 17 May 2026

His phone buzzed. Leo. “Party at the point. Be there or be square, old man.”

“Yeah,” he said. And for once, he didn’t say it like a lie.

Rocco stood up. He walked to his mirror and looked at the boy staring back. Dark circles. A jaw that needed shaving but not badly enough to bother. A small scar above his eyebrow from a bike crash when he was twelve—back when pain was simple, just gravel and blood and a mother’s kiss. rocco-s pov 17

He walked out into the September dusk, the air sharp with the promise of autumn. Seventeen was not an answer. Seventeen was a bridge, and he was standing in the middle, the past a dim shoreline behind him, the future a fog he couldn’t see through. But the wind on his face felt like something. Like maybe, just maybe, he wasn’t broken. Like maybe he was just becoming.

Then she’d pulled away and said, “You’re shaking.” His phone buzzed

Her face did something complicated. Relief. Worry. A flicker of the woman she used to be before life made her careful. “Okay, Roo. Be safe.”

His mother’s knock came. Two soft raps. Be there or be square, old man

Downstairs, his mother hung up. He heard her blow her nose, then run the faucet to cover the sound. She would come up in a minute, knock twice—gentle, apologetic—and ask if he wanted meatloaf. She would pretend her eyes weren’t red. He would pretend not to notice. That was their love language: the art of the graceful lie.