Chapter 2: The Weight of Rings

My phone ringing woke me up, a throbbing headache pounding against my eyes. I opened my eyes to glance at the screen—Timothy's name on the dim screen as the little light filtering in through my blinds. "Last night was legendary. You all right?" I rolled over onto my back, groaning, the ceiling lazily spinning after too much beer and not nearly enough sleep. His words from the party looped in my head, slurred and heavy: “You’re the only one who gets me.” I’d replayed it all night, chasing the meaning through restless dreams, but it was just drunk talk.

Had to be.

I hunched up and rubbed my eyes, and the family photo on my desk came into view. Me, Sarah, and Dad—when he was still present, before cancer took him out and left her stronger than ever. Duty is tougher than love, he had said to me once, the voice roughened by chemo. I didn't get it then. Today, it's all I feel, crushing down on me like a boulder on my ribcage.

The door creaked open, and Sarah entered, tidy in her ironed blouse, dark hair scraped back tightly. No knock, no warning—just her, standing in the room with that unobtrusive power she wielded like a sword. She dropped a small velvet box onto my bed, and it thudded gently against my leg.

"Emma's ring size is through," she said, flat tone, as if reciting a shopping list. "Try it on her this weekend. Her mum wants to know what's happening."

I glanced at the box, black and somber, as if it wasn't going to trap me into a life I didn't want. "This weekend?" My throat hurt, hangover making everything ten times worse.

“Yes, Moses. This weekend.” She crossed her arms, eyes narrowing. “You’ve dragged your feet long enough. She’s a good girl—stable, respectable. What your father would’ve wanted.”

I didn't argue. What was the point? She'd already decided, like always. I shrugged, and she sped off as quickly as she'd entered, the door clicking closed behind her. The box still sat there, taunting me. I reached out my fingers, tracing the velvet, but didn't touch it. Not yet. Later, I ran into Emma at a coffee place off campus, the kind with mismatched furniture and outrageously expensive lattes. She was already sitting, sitting by the window, her brown hair pulled back behind her ears, a nervous smile flashing as I sat down across from her. She was pretty—soft features, a quiet kind of elegance—but it didn't do anything for me.

My mind was still with Timothy, his sloppy grin, his hand wrapped around mine in the dark.

"So," she started, sipping her tea, "how's post-grad life treating you?"

"Fine," I said, too quickly. "Weird, though. Not having classes."

She nodded, as though she got it. "I'm starting at the elementary school in a month. Third grade teaching. Kids are chaos, but I love it." Her smile widened, genuine, and I tried to keep up. She talked about her cat, a tabby named Muffin, and I nodded, sipping my coffee, but my thoughts drifted.

Last night. The dorm. Timothy on the couch, three beers in, his hand outstretched to find mine in the haze. "You're my rock, Mo," he'd been saying, eyes half-closed. "The only one who understands." I'd gone rigid, heart pounding, hoping for more—some sign he meant it the way I did. But he'd passed out, head lolled against the cushion, and I'd sat there, watching him, until the sun came up.

"Earth to Moses?" Emma's voice brought me back. She tilted her head, curious. "You all right? You zoned out."

"Yeah, sorry." I laughed, trying to be cool. "Long night."

Her smile faltered, like she felt something, but she didn't push it. That was Emma—kind, distant, letting me drift in my own head. I wondered if she'd ever push, or if she'd just keep pretending that everything was fine.

My phone beeped once more when we emerged from the café. Timothy. "Forgot to mention—told him my life story last night, huh? Blackout!" His voice arrived in static fragments on the call back, all flip and none of seriousness, as if it had never happened. I laughed in, but it burned, a hard knot in my stomach. He didn't recall. Naturally, he didn't.

Leo's text came next, abrupt and intrusive: "Heard about the ring. You're really doing this?" I brushed it off, shoving my phone into my pocket, but Sarah's voice caught up to me later that day, when I was back at home. She cornered me in the kitchen, her shadow on the counter where I was pouring myself a glass of water.

"Timothy's a distraction," she said, low and firm. "You're too close. Finish it, Moses, or I will."

I gripped the glass, knuckles clenching. "He's my friend."

"He's trouble." Her gaze met mine, unflinching. "You've got responsibilities now. Emma. This family. Don't make me choose for you."

She had gone outside, leaving the threat hanging in the air. I had been paralyzed, water trembling in my hand, her words clicking into place. End it. As if it was simply a matter of clipping him off from me, as if he wasn't part of every aspect of who I was.

Alone in my own bed that night, I pulled out the velvet case from the pocket of my jeans. Soft lamp light danced across it, and I snapped the case open. A thin, shining silver circle, naked, glinting like an accidental promise I wasn't sure I wanted to keep. He does not remember, I thought, tracing a thumb along its edge, while I will always recall. Closing it now, tucking it back into the jeans pocket, it felt heavier than before.