“You sure you’re okay?” Coach asks as we stretch, eyes fixed on the spot where U-re’s danbong had made splintering contact with my head.

“I’m fine,” I try to reassure him, hoping my voice only sounds stressed to me. “Barely any stitches, and they said there weren’t any signs of lingering after-effects from the concussion.”

Coach makes a sound of unamused understanding, still frowning at my head. U-re never did tell me what Coach had him do as physical punishment for that whole incident, but all I know is that he wasn’t walking too well for about two days afterwards because his legs were so sore.

“Not the best early birthday present, was it?” Coach finally snorts, shaking his head with his usual smirk-like smile. It had taken me about a week to realize he wasn’t laughing at me when I’d first met him.

“Mm,” I chuckle half-heartedly back, keeping my eyes very focused on the floor.

“Alright,” Coach moves to sit cross-legged in front of me. “Spill it. What’s up with you?”

“Huh? Nothing, I--”

“Bullshit.”

Taken aback by the seriousness in Coach’s voice, I blink. But he looks more concerned than angry. His eyes give me a total once-over, holding a little longer on my head than anywhere else.

“I let you get away with not talking last time, but now I’m worried. You’ve been distracted and tired more than usual, even before U-re smashed a danbong across your temple,” he goes on. “So what’s going on? Is it because it’s that time of year?” His voice softens, “I can’t help you if you don’t talk to me. So, please, talk to me...stop holding it in.”

I’ve gone completely insane. I’m being chased by a phantom no one else can see who calls herself Death and claims I’m going to die today. Throw on top of all that mess that it’s the time of year where I’m swamped with schoolwork while being hit hardest by my distinct lack of family…

But, of course, I say none of that. I stay silent, looking at Coach, and it’s like every feeling I could ever feel runs a damn race through my chest. I have to force my body to breathe; I swallow back the painful lump in my throat; I try to anchor myself to the ground under my butt.

Coach has asked before, and I’ve always avoided most of the...important stuff he doesn’t know about. Maybe it’s time to test the waters a little, so I settle upon the safest, sanest answer, “I haven’t really been sleeping well lately.”

Coach nods for me to elaborate, making it clear that I’m not getting out of this conversation as easily as I did last time.

You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story.

“Well,” I exhale, “I’ve had this recurring dream. To be honest, it’s not really anything new -- I’ve had this same dream on and off ever since I was a little kid.”

“I see,” Coach’s eyes tighten and he cocks his head to the side. “So you’ve been having a recurring nightmare.”

I nod, “I’ve seen doctors and stuff for it before and supposedly it’s...my brain is just…” I sigh; this isn’t working. “Okay, so you know how I’ve got these white chunks in my hair, right?” I pull one of said chunks between my fingers to demonstrate.

“They’re hard to miss,” Coach nods with a small snort.

“Well most people think it’s some kind of fashion statement or whatever -- like U-re and his hair. But it’s not dyed or bleached; it’s not something that I did to myself.”

“Okay…” Coach frowns, unsure of where I’m leading him. He’s probably waiting for me to bring up my parents, but little does he know I’ve got worries beyond being an orphan.

“I fell through some ice as a kid -- out on Wolji Pond of all places,” I nod back towards where said landmark would be if we weren’t inside the studio. Coach’s eyebrows go up and I sit forward, waving my hands, “It’s fine! Well, it wasn't fine at the time. I was pretty young and apparently it was really scary for everyone because I wandered out of the house in the middle of the night and...” I snort, half-forcing a smile, “Apparently I told my mom and dad it was an angel that saved me.”

Every bit of that is true. But I’m leaving out the part where, later on, I also claimed said angel was my imaginary friend. I’d forgotten about that bit until recently; go figure the dream showing back up meant a whole bunch of other old memories did too.

Coach doesn’t look any bit relaxed. Great. Now I’ve freaked him out.

“But, yeah, chunks of my hair went white -- according to the internet it’s some sort of urban legend with this French queen, Marie Antoinette.”

“That your hair turns white because of trauma,” Coach says slowly. “I’ve heard of it.”

I plow on, rambling about the dream and how it’s my brain’s way of making sense of things and it’s something that’s recurred on and off since as far back as I can remember. Coach doesn’t move throughout my entire lame explanation; he sits there, staring at me with the odd blink every now and then. Even after I trail off into silence, clearing my throat and looking around at anywhere besides his face, he says nothing.

When I finally look back at him, cheeks burning in embarrassment, Coach’s face has fallen to something between a frown and a sad grimace.

“Have you talked with anyone about this?” he asks quietly.

I shake my head, “Not besides the doctors when it happened. And my parents knew, but...yeah…” But they’re not around anymore, so all I’ve got is my doctor.

“If it’s affecting you this much that even I notice, when I also know that you’re usually a little more withdrawn around this time of year, then it is a big deal and you should tell someone about it,” Coach says, clearing his throat as he stands.

I reach to take his proffered hand as the lights go out with a loud boom! and a roar like a thousand screaming horses and engines.