Micah Armani Valentine
Terminal B
October 16, 2024 (Wednesday)
The next day came too fast. I barely slept. My mind was still running through the argument with my dad, the weight of everything pressing on my chest like a boulder. Jasmine and Dad had argued late into the night, their voices muffled but sharp enough that I could still feel the tension lingering in the air. Aiden had stayed with me the whole night, barely letting go of me, like he knew I needed someone close.
The twins called Aiden early in the morning. He answered, but I didn't say a word to them. I couldn't. I wasn't ready. I didn't know what to say—how to explain the knot in my chest, the way my throat still burned from yelling at Dad, or how the weight of losing Mom felt heavier than ever.
Dad handed me a new phone this morning. A blue iPhone 15 Plus. It felt strange holding something new, like a fresh start I didn't ask for.
We were at the airport now, sitting at the gate, waiting to board. I had my Beats on, drowning in music, scrolling through Instagram mindlessly just to avoid thinking. The group chat had been blowing up all morning, my friends checking in after I told them what happened last night. I texted Malia, keeping it short—just saying I had some personal things going on. She said I could vent to her if I needed to, but I didn't respond.
The only people I ever really opened up to were Princess, Cameron, and Keith. I hated trusting new people with my pain. I didn't want pity. I didn't need it. I just wanted to be talked to like I was normal.
Aiden nudged me, snapping me out of my thoughts.
"Here, bubba. Dad got you Chick-fil-A and orange juice. They didn't have apple," he said, passing me the bag.
I nodded, taking it from him. "Thanks."
I picked at my hash browns, chewing slowly, but my appetite wasn't really there. My mind was somewhere else. Somewhere I couldn't escape.
The airport announcement crackled overhead.
"Flight #5678 is now boarding."
"Come on, MJ," Dad called, already moving with Jasmine toward the line.
I grabbed Aiden's hand and followed, getting our boarding passes scanned before walking down the hallway to the plane.
Aiden was practically buzzing with excitement. "Omg, bubba, I'm gonna take so many pictures," he grinned as we stepped onto the plane.
I laughed a little, shaking my head. "I bet."
The plane was packed, but we had assigned seats, so we didn't have to worry about it.
"MJ, you're with me and Aiden. Jasmine's sitting in front of us," Dad said, motioning toward our seats.
I nodded. "Lemme sit by the window, Pops."
He didn't argue, just gestured for me to take the seat. I put my bag under the seat, took my headphones off, and looked out the window.
For some reason, I always got paranoid about my bags not making it onto the plane, so I was watching the workers load them, scanning every movement outside.
Then, I heard a small voice from the aisle.
"Dad, where's Mom? Is she on the flight?" A little boy asked, tugging on his father's shirt.
"No, son. She already left. She's on a different plane, remember?" The dad replied gently.
"But I miss Mommy... I wanna go with Mommy," the boy whined, tears threatening to fall.
"Son, your mother already left," the dad repeated.
The words hit me like a brick.
"She already left."
My breath caught in my throat. Those words. Those exact words.
Flashback – Three Years Ago
"Just go play ball, baby. Just go play ball," Mom whispered, her voice weak but filled with love.
Her eyes fluttered shut.
My heart dropped.
"Mom?" Fourteen-year-old me shook her gently.
Her lips were cold.
"Mommy, wake up," I said, shaking her harder now.
Her mouth parted slightly, but there was no response.
My stomach twisted.
Something was wrong.
"MOMMY!" I screamed.
The door burst open. Nurses rushed in.
"Selena, can you hear me?" One of them yelled, checking her vitals.
Another nurse grabbed me, pulling me out of the room.
"GIMME A CRASH CART, NOW!" Another voice called out.
I fought against their grip. "No! NO! Let me go! She's just sleeping!" My voice cracked.
"Sweetie, let's get a snack," a nurse said, trying to distract me. She handed me a pack of Gushers and an apple juice, her hands gentle but firm.
I ignored them.
A voice behind me spoke, quiet but devastating. "Did you call his dad?"
"I'm on the phone now," someone else said. "I'm so sorry, baby... but your mom passed."
The words sliced through me.
My breath hitched. My knees buckled.
"No," I whispered.
"She's just sleeping a little longer," I said again, my voice desperate.
"Honey, her heart stopped—"
"NO! DON'T SAY THAT!" I screamed, standing up so fast my chair toppled over.
"She wouldn't leave me." My hands clenched into fists.
A nurse tried to calm me down. "Micah—"
"GO FIX HER!" I roared, shoving a tray off the table.
My legs started shaking.
"Micah, your dad's here," someone said softly.
I looked up.
Dad stood in front of me, tears in his eyes.
"Why are you crying? Did they fix her?" I asked, my voice trembling.
Dad wiped his face. "No, son. She already left... she's gone."
His words echoed in my skull.
"She already left."
Something inside me snapped.
"AHHHH!" I screamed, standing up.
"No. No, no, no. Don't touch me!" I backed away, my chest heaving.
"She's not staying!"
Maya crept around the corner, her face pale.
"Baby, calm down," she whispered.
"NO! SHE'S NOT DEAD!"
I grabbed the nearest chair and threw it across the room. I punched the wall, ignoring the pain as my knuckles split open.
I could hear Aiden crying, backing away.
My breathing was erratic. My vision blurred. My body trembled.
"Micah, stop! Your hand— it's bleeding!" Dad yelled, stepping toward me.
But I couldn't stop.
I was throwing everything, knocking over chairs, trashing the hospital lobby.
I couldn't breathe. I couldn't think.
Maya ran to get the nurses.
They came rushing in, grabbing me, holding me down.
"NO! MOMMY!" I screamed.
I fought against them, but their grip was too strong.
"Micah, baby, please," Maya sobbed, covering her mouth.
Then everything went black.
Flashback Over
I gasped. My chest tightened. My lungs refused to work.
I clawed at my hoodie, trying to loosen it.
The plane walls felt like they were closing in.
"Micah, you okay?" Dad asked, leaning toward me.
I couldn't answer.
My heart was pounding. My vision was spinning.
"Go play ball, baby. Just go play ball."
Mom's voice rang in my head.
"Mommy!" Fourteen-year-old me screamed in my brain.
I gripped my chest. "D-Dad... I— I can't breathe," I gasped.
Aiden's eyes widened. "Omg! What's wrong with bubby?!"
"Micah, it's a panic attack. Just try to breathe," Dad said, rubbing my back.
A flight attendant rushed over with water.
"Here, drink this," Dad said, handing it to me.
I tried, but my hands were shaking.
Tears blurred my vision.
Dad pulled me close, holding the back of my head like he used to when I was little. "I got you, son. Just breathe."
Tears slipped down my face as the plane took off.
————
Aspen, Colorado 📍
Stepping out of the airport, exhaustion settled deep in my bones. The cold Aspen air hit my face, crisp and refreshing, but it did nothing to clear the weight pressing on my chest. Aiden's small hand was wrapped tightly in mine as Jasmine pulled up in the rental car, a sleek black G-Wagon.
My dad and I loaded the bags into the trunk, but I could feel his eyes on me—studying, worrying. I ignored it, shutting the trunk with a dull thud before climbing into the backseat with Aiden. As soon as I sat down, I stretched out and laid my head in his lap, letting my heavy eyes close.
"I got you, Bubba. It's okay," Aiden whispered, his fingers absentmindedly playing with my locs.
From the front seat, my dad let out a quiet sigh before wiping his face, his worry barely masked. Jasmine just shook her head and turned up the music, filling the car with soft R&B as we pulled away from the airport.
I drifted in and out of sleep during the ride, lulled by the vibration of the car and Aiden's warmth. When we finally arrived, I opened my eyes, squinting as I took in the massive log cabin in front of us. The place was huge—bigger than I expected, towering against the snowy mountain backdrop like something out of a movie.
Jasmine shut off the engine and turned in her seat. "Alright, everyone, your rooms are marked with your initials, and the chef should be here soon to set up lunch."
I dragged myself out of the car, rubbing my hands together for warmth before grabbing my suitcase. Aiden struggled with his, so I pulled his along with mine as we followed my dad to the front door. He punched in a code, unlocking the house, and as soon as we stepped inside, my mouth parted slightly.
The interior was just as impressive as the outside—floor-to-ceiling windows flooded the space with natural light, reflecting off sleek wooden floors. A massive stone fireplace took up most of the living room wall, and the kitchen, with its high-end appliances and dark granite counters, looked straight out of a cooking show. A grand staircase led both up and down, giving the place an even bigger feel.
"I'll tour later," I muttered, rolling my suitcase toward the stairs. "I just need to lay down."
After climbing to the second floor, I searched until I found my room. The initials M.A.V. were carved neatly into the wooden plaque on the door. I pushed it open and exhaled at the sight.
A queen-sized bed with a soft brown comforter sat in the center of the room, neatly arranged with plush pillows. A large TV was mounted on the opposite wall, and long curtains framed a balcony door, leading out to a view of the snow-covered trees. The attached bathroom was modern, with a glass shower and a window that overlooked the mountains.
I set my bag down and got to work, hooking up my PS5 and unpacking some of my clothes. But the most important thing came last. I reached into my bag and pulled out a framed picture of my mom, carefully setting it on the nightstand.
I never went anywhere without her.
Just as I sat down on the bed, there was a knock at the door.
"Come in," I called.
My dad stepped inside, shutting the door behind him. His expression was unreadable, but the way he sighed before speaking told me it was something serious.
"I want you to consider therapy, MJ," he said, his voice careful. "And before you get mad, just hear me out."
I tensed, already wanting to shut the conversation down, but I stayed quiet.
He sat down on the edge of my bed. "You need someone to talk to, son. You bottle everything up, and I see how much your anxiety spikes whenever your mom comes up." He hesitated, watching my reaction. "I think you have PTSD from everything you went through with her passing."
I took a slow breath, my throat tight.
"I hear you, Dad. But talking to a stranger about Mom?" I shook my head. "I barely talk about her with people I trust. Why would I wanna sit in some office and relive it all?"
"I get it," he said. "I really do. But think about your future. What if this happens while you're on the court? Or worse—what if you're driving?"
Damn.
That hit differently. I rubbed the back of my neck, staring at the floor.
"I hadn't thought about it like that," I admitted.
"I have," he said softly. "And I just want you to be okay. Just think about it, alright? Let me know."
I sighed and nodded, dapping him up before he stood and left the room.
The second the door closed, I turned toward my mom's picture, tracing the edge of the frame with my fingers.
"Mami," I murmured, "show me a sign. Should I do this?"
Silence filled.
the room, heavy and still. I glanced around, waiting—hoping—for something. Anything. But nothing moved, nothing shifted. Just the faint hum of the heater and the distant sound of Jasmine talking downstairs.
I sighed, shaking my head. "Guess not," I mumbled.
Just as I was about to get up, Jasmine's voice echoed from the hallway. "Bubba, wash up! First activity is snowboarding lessons."
"Alright, alright," I called back, pushing myself off the bed.
I walked over to my suitcase, pulling out my skiing gear and laying it on the bed. Then, I grabbed my towel and stepped into the bathroom, turning on the shower. Steam quickly filled the space, fogging up the mirror.
I reached out to wipe it off, but then I stopped.
Something was there.
Frowning, I squinted at the glass. In the middle of the fog was a faint shape—small but clear. A pink bow.
My stomach dropped.
I leaned in, my pulse kicking up as I traced my finger over the outline. It was the exact same ribbon that represented breast cancer. The same one that reminded me of Mom. And just beside it, almost too faint to see, was an M.
My breath caught.
A sign.
My throat tightened, and I exhaled shakily, pressing my palm against the counter. "Damn," I whispered, my mind racing.
It wasn't what I wanted, but it was what I asked for.
I swallowed hard, gripping the edges of the sink.
"Guess that's my answer."
I let out a deep breath, rubbing a hand down my face before pulling off my shirt.
"Damn... I gotta go to therapy," I muttered.
Shaking my head, I stripped down and stepped under the hot spray of water, letting it run over me. But even as I washed up, my mind stayed stuck on that fogged-up mirror and the message that had been left behind.
Maybe Dad was right. Maybe I did need help.
And maybe... Mom just told me it was time .
Should he go to therapy??👀👀👀- author note
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