Fraud

Content Warning: Depression

I cheered my brother on as he scored the final goal. The rest of his team shouted and ran up to hug him. He was smiling, but I could tell something was off as the girls jumped

around him, because his feet never left the ground.

"Come on, bud. I'll take you out for some ice cream," I said, slinging an arm around him as he walked off the field.

"Actually, can you take me home?" he asked.

"Okay," I said with a concerned nod. Yeah, something wasn't right.

On the car ride home, James was silent. I hadn't seen him in months—being in university meant I couldn't come back to visit very often. I planned this weekend carefully; I wanted to be home to see at least one of my brother's games before the end of the season.

"Mom and Dad are out on a date night," I said as I pulled into the driveway. "How about I make us breakfast for dinner?"

"Sure. Sounds great."

James grabbed his bag from the back seat and hurried inside. He kicked off his cleats beside the door, and before I could say anything else to him, he disappeared down the hall and into his bedroom.

With a worried hum, I went the opposite direction and started whipping up some protein pancakes. I poured the batter into the pan, sprinkling some chocolate chips on top, just like old times. I slid the syrup across the counter and called James to dinner, but he didn't respond.

"Hey," I said, softly tapping on his door. James was on his bed, curled up on his side, facing the wall. He hadn't even changed out of his jersey yet. "Can I come in?"

He shrugged.

“I've got a stack of pancakes in the kitchen," I said. "You want one?"

"Not hungry."

I sat on the edge of the mattress, keeping my distance, but I leaned to the side to see his face. His eyes were a little puffy.

“So, how’s practice been?” I asked, rubbing my hands together. “You did great today; your coach must be really pushing you."

James lifted his head to look up at me, then flopped back down.

"I don't know how much more of this I can take,” he whispered. His fingers clawed at his neck.

I laughed lightly. "Yeah, I know training can be hard. I hated it at first, too. But it'll get easier—"

"Not the training."

I watched as he pulled a pillow over his head, and pressed both his hands into it.

"James?"

"I don't mind the training, really. I like it. It's a distraction."

"Distraction? From what?"

"I don't know," he lied. "I just have this fear that I'll be stuck like this forever."

"You lost me."

He sighed, then shifted the pillow. I could see his eyes again, and they looked even more dull than before.

"I hate this body, Zayn. It isn't mine."

"Aw, James."

I scooted closer to him. I put my hand on his shoulder, but he shrugged it off. I pulled my arm back as he shrank himself smaller.

"Do you wanna talk about it?"

"No."

"Do you want a hug?"

"No."

"Is there anything I can do?"

He shut his eyes.

"No."

I considered letting him be, but I wasn't sure leaving him alone with his thoughts was the best idea right now. While I would never experience what he was going through, I knew it was beyond difficult.

"Hey, I know it's hard," I said. "But if it makes you feel better, your body doesn't determine who you are."

"I know that. But that doesn't make this feeling go away."

"Is there something that does make it go away?"

"Haven't found it yet."

I nodded, and glanced around the room, looking for a way to cheer him up. My gaze landed on the hook behind the door, and I noticed James's binder wasn't hanging up in its usual spot. I asked if he was wearing it, and he tensed up.

"Oh, come on, James. Give yourself a break."

"I don't want to."

"It's not good for you to wear it so much."

"Think I care?"

"Nobody’s looking at you. Please, just take it off."

He sat up with a sigh. "Fine. Turn away."

I faced the opposite direction while he took off his jersey and struggled out of that thing. It was dark in the room, but I noticed a mountain of laundry in front of his closet and a collection of dishes building up on his dresser. Poor kid.

Once he had his shirt on again, he gave me the okay, and I turned back to him. He pressed his hunched spine into the wall and curled his legs up to his chest again, hiding his face in his knees.

"I hate this," he whimpered.

I crawled over to the wall and sat beside him.

"You know, you're one of the strongest guys I've ever met," I said.

"I know you're lying. I couldn't even make the boys’ team.”

"I wasn't talking about physical strength, bud. You've been through so much, and you've only been alive for, what, fifteen years? But despite all the hard times, you're still pushing through. And that's a choice. A choice only the strongest of people can make."

He took his face out of his knees and looked up at the mirror on the wall.

"I feel like a fraud."

"Why would you say that?"

"Because... some days are good. And things are okay. But then there are days where I look at myself and it's like I'm not the person I say I am. Like I'm just... pretending."

"You are who you say you are. You're James. You're an amazing soccer player, just like Dad. And I know he’s super proud of you.”

"I don’t think so,” he said. “I think he’s disappointed. He was given a daughter and now look at me.”

"No, he wasn't. He was given a son, but everyone got the labels wrong at first. And that's their fault, not yours."

He dropped his chin to his knee again. "Can I get that hug now?”