You Were Always A Losing Game Novels & Stories

"I'm not walking away from the only thread." "And if it's a trap?" "Most things worth doing have that risk." He looked at her for a moment. "You've changed," he said. Quietly. Not as criticism. "I was always this person," she said. "You just never saw it." The words landed between them the way true things did — without drama, without softening, just present and undeniable. He didn't argue. He just looked out the window at the city moving past and said, "I know," in the voice of someone who had made peace with a loss they couldn't undo.

No matter what, I wanted to show him that I could win at something. After hours of trying this and that, I found out that I couldn’t win at anything. Whether it was a game that seemed totally based on luck or a game where I had to use some skill after understanding the rules of the game. I was flabbergasted by the losses that kept stacking up as time flew by. “You’re really not talented at this…” he said before grinning wryly at me.

Like anything outside that image was unacceptable. At that point, I gave up. There was no use trying to defend myself. He’d already decided how he wanted this conversation to go. I just let him ramble—words stretching out, piling up, building something bigger than it really was. I didn’t see the point of dragging out small issues with friends. Not everything needed to be a battlefield. The rest of the day moved slowly, like time was dragging its feet. We curled up in front of the TV, cycling through N*****x shows and picking at food. Jayden cooked—he had been doing—and I just sat nearby, watching him move like the kitchen belonged to him.

A cold thought slid through me: If I lost my name, would the game still know what to call me? “No,” the older woman whispered. “No, no, no—” “This is what I mean,” Corvin said, his voice low and tight. “Every win here has teeth. If you gamble, assume you’re paying with something you don’t understand until it’s gone.” The boy—*the* boy, because that was all he had now—shook his head in little jerks, as if that would dislodge the missing thing. “I can’t— I had a—”

But even as I said it, I felt the truth clawing at me. And Just like that The game had only begun. And I was already losing.

she asked, looking me in the eye and I slowly admitted it. "Yes," I replied, looking away. "How about it?" Bethel asked, still holding my hands. "If I tell you, you wouldn't believe it" I replied, still looking away trying not to have eye contact with her. "What Clarissa, please tell me" she pleaded, massaging my hands. I sighed and turned my head slowly. I really don't want anybody to die again but the game is somehow creepy and I end up losing to that gamer all the time. "I lose the game at the very die minute" I reply with a hoarse voice as tears well up in my eyes.

His games persisted. And I was still playing. Still choosing. Still trying to win a game designed for me to lose. The question was: how many more rounds could I survive before I lost myself completely?

I acted like I was sorry, but in reality, I secretly enjoyed getting under his skin from time to time. My dad is extremely competitive, so we play a match with sets. Each set consists of a minimum of six games, and each game is made up of points. He wins every round, and during each break, he lectures me about not paying enough attention. While he’s not entirely wrong, it’s just a tennis game—he really needs to chill. Apparently, I needed to practice more. My dad insists we have a doubles match tomorrow with his best friend, Wesley Summers, and his son, Josh Summers. I dread the thought of playing with them; losing always angers my dad, and Josh is a giant asshole.

I lost count of how many times I cursed myself for not taking more pictures with you. "But now I think that maybe if I hadn't turned you down that day, you wouldn't have left me at all." I listened in silence. He looked at me and smiled at me faintly. "Actually, I've been here for a while now. But I never dared to let you see me."

“You’re bold tonight.” “I’ve got nothing to lose.” He leaned forward, resting his forearms on the table. “That’s where you’re wrong, sweetheart. You always have something to lose. Everyone does.” That last line hit harder than I expected. I didn’t respond. I just played another card, and the game went on. The rhythm of it was strange — soft shuffles, glances, silence. Every card felt like another round in a battle neither of us wanted to end. Finally, my hand was down to two.