Most days, basketball felt easy to James. Not perfect. Just familiar.
That afternoon in the community gym, the ball left his fingers the same way it always did. The layup was smooth, practiced, automatic.
Kids rushed behind him, sneakers squeaking, voices echoing. For a moment, everything looked normal.
The ball hit the front of the rim.
It bounced away, light and quick, like it was in a hurry to leave.
James landed under the hoop and stood there a second longer than he meant to.
The game moved on without him. No one said anything. They didn’t have to.
As he jogged back, James noticed the sound of his feet. Everyone else sounded sharp and quick. His didn’t.
His steps felt heavy, dull, like the floor was softer under him than it should’ve been. He glanced down at his shoes while he ran.
They looked fine.
During the last drill, James slowed again.
He stopped and stared at his legs, confused. They were the same legs he’d always had.
Nothing hurt. Nothing looked wrong. Still, something felt off.
Outside the gym, the late afternoon sun stretched long shadows across the parking lot.
Milo was already talking, already moving. He walked backward while dribbling, smiling wide, barely looking at the ball.
“Tomorrow morning,” Milo said, bouncing it hard. “Park run.”
Milo stumbled, caught himself, laughed like it didn’t matter.
James tried to smile back. It took a second longer than usual.
In the car, the world slid past the window in streaks of orange and blue. James rested his head against the glass.
“My legs feel… slow,” he said.
His dad didn’t rush to answer. He just nodded. “Okay.”
That was it. No lecture. No fix. Somehow, that made it feel more real.
At dinner, James’s phone buzzed on the table. The screen lit up, glowing between his plate and his glass of water. His dad noticed, but didn’t reach for it.
“If you go,” his dad said calmly, leaning forward, “you gotta want to be there. If you stay, you gotta actually rest.”
James nodded, quiet.
Later, under a streetlamp, James dribbled alone. The ball hit the ground—and squashed flat. Not really, but it looked that way. Like it didn’t want to bounce. Like it was tired too.
James stopped. He stared at it.
The street was normal. The night was quiet.
The ball rolled back to his hand, round again, like nothing happened.
In his room, the phone glowed softly in the dark. James held it with both hands. He typed. Deleted. Typed again. Then he stopped.
“Not comin.”
The next morning, Milo was already at the park. Sweat dripped down his face. His hands rested on his knees as he sucked in air.
He grinned anyway.
“I’m good!” Milo said, breathing hard.
A few days later, back in the gym, James sat on the bleachers tying his shoes. The floor beneath him felt solid again. Normal. He stood up and gave a small hop. His feet left the ground and came back down softly.
Sometimes the strongest thing a kid can do is tell the truth about what they feel — and choose rest without guilt.