A Good Human
THE FOOD SMELLS amazing. I don’t eat it.
My elbows are planted on the cool cafeteria table, pinching each side of the plastic tray a bit too hard. Earthy vegetable soup and warm cornbread steam up my nostrils, smelling incredible but also lulling me out of digging in, weirdly. Like I needed the comfort more than the actual food.
Can’t stop staring at this thing. Just a piece of construction paper, folded in four, the crayon colors visible even from the underside.
My fingertips trace the edges, the folds, feel the prickles at the corners.
But I don’t open it.
I want to. Been running around with it in my back pocket, wanting to show it to everyone I passed, like it’s the first picture of a baby I’ll never get to have.
But at the same time, it feels like I’m hiding this clandestine atrocity that no one can see, but in my mind, everyone just knows, somehow.
Like a drunk dare tramp stamp. Or a secret porn career.
Thank you for being kind. That’s the atrocity.
The you’re the best part stirs nothing in me. Maybe because it’s what people always tell me—fans, trainers, reporters, sponsors. Kind is… Can’t even remember the last time I heard the word in my circles, directed at the people around me.
The sport isn’t about kindness—what sport is?
No professional who depends on their body is allowed to be soft.
Striking iron, over and over, is how it hardens, and precision takes hard effort, experience takes hard repetition.
Non-stop, every day, even when resting. It takes consistency, even in the hard days.
Pretty ballerinas are the most badass motherfuckers you could ever meet. Dancers look effortlessly soft because nothing about what they do is effortless. Same for singers. Same for models. Same for everything any professional ever does that appears soft.
Softness takes effort, too. It’s not something many of us can spare energy on, in addition to the myriad of other things, day after day. Kindness is simply…not viable.
Which is the whole issue, I think. The reason why I’m not opening this folded piece of construction paper, why my palms are getting sweaty just holding it like this.
Because it was effortless. For me, with Zane. It took nothing at all.
And it meant so much.
Where does that leave me?
There’s movement in the corner of my eye. I slide the drawing beneath my food tray.
Then I sigh, since it’s just Eli. My shoulders drop, neck relaxes. My jaw too, and damn, the joint aches like a motherfucker. Shit… It’s been a while since that happened.
Eli places his food tray on the table, sits down in front of me.
And immediately, like always, my foot slides to him, meeting his in the middle.
I rub my sneaker against his ankle, even though I’m sure he can’t feel it through the cuff of his jeans, the leather of his boot. Doesn’t matter— I feel it.
“Hey,” he says, eyes tired but twinkling, matching his smile.
“Hey.” I smile too. “You almost missed dinner.”
Such a loud exhale, poor thing. His eyes fall closed for a moment. “Emergency with the new colt. It’s fine now.” Then he takes his silverware and starts separating the meat curry chunks from the peas from the rice. “Ruin’s good? Rey said he was clean.”
My cheek drops to my hand, heavy on my elbow. I nod, watching him be cute with his food. “Yeah, was just me overthinking shit like always.”
“That ain’t overthinking, it’s caring,” Eli says as if he had the answer cocked, finger on the trigger. “You’re responsible for a living creature who can’t tell you what he needs ‘cause he don’t speak your language. It’s too easy to be neglectful. You were a good human to your horse. That’s it.”
Human. There it is again.
And with the way he looks at me, so certain, the twinkle turned fire in his eyes, I almost believe it. That overthinking can be how I care, not just how I survive. That the heart that kneels to no one in the arena can be the same that kneels for a child on the sidelines.
That I’m not just human, but a good one.
Maybe I am.
I think…I want to be.
Without deciding on it, I slide the drawing out from under my tray, place it between us on the table. His eyes flick to it, then back to me.
“From the kid at the junior event,” I say, almost a whisper. “Remember? The one who almost fell?”
His lips fall open, eyes stretch. Yeah, he remembers.
He props the silverware on his plate, wipes his hands on a napkin. Then he picks up the drawing like it’s an artifact of the horse gods, even more reverent than I was when Rey handed it to me.
My stomach clenches as he unfolds it, so gently. Once, then twice.
When his smile blooms, I feel it inside my lungs.
Wide, warm, then too much, too honest, too hot and solid against my ribs, searing my chest on the inside.
It takes up all the space, all the air, pushes everything to my throat, to my eyes, blurring his face enough that there’s no point in looking anymore.
Better off on my soup, floating carrots and cabbage on a white bowl with faded flowers once printed on.
Smiles that real humans make. And that scramble the wires on machines like me.
“This is...” he starts, voice thick with homemade caramel and maybe…
Not pride, right? At Zane’s artwork, maybe, but nothing I did on a whim would be worth joy that pure coating his expression.
His thumbs trace the colored lines, caressing them—it’s just crayon on paper.
Why is he making such a big deal out of it?
“Cassian, this is beautiful.”
“It’s just a drawing.”
“No.” His head shakes. “Ain’t no just about this.” He keeps staring at it, at the perfect end for his day, the delicious dessert after the meal, while his actual one gets cold over some colored scribbles. “You wanna frame it? I got a spare in my room.”
No! Why the fuck would I frame this? Okay, it’s…special, I guess. No, it is special. Zane put a lot of effort into it, I can tell. I should frame it. I want to. I will.
Fuck, my chest hurts. I rub it, up and down my sternum.
I flinch. Something on my other hand.
It’s Eli. Eli’s hand. On mine. I look at him.
“Hey,” he says. He’s not smiling anymore. “It’s yours. Whatever you wanna do with it. ”
I nod. Because I can’t manage much else. Even breathing is getting harder, so I focus on doing that, on his hand covering mine. I lock it in place, my thumb over his.
He gets it. He always gets it. I don’t need to explain.
He gets me. He sees me. He knows.
I close my eyes. And I breathe.
“Cassiaaan!”
Our hands slip away so fast, my elbow hits the empty chair beside me. Lena plops onto it, her head dropping dead on my shoulder. “I’m bored. And sad.”
My eyes settle on her hair. It’s damp from a shower, and the moisture seeps through my t-shirt. I focus on that, on the cold, on her. It’s good. Easier. “What are you sad about?”
“Kellan not here. Tomorrow, I will be not here.” She sniffs. “I love here.” She crosses her arms, pinning her hands to her body. “And then I will never see Big Brother ever. And Horse Daddy. No family anymore.”
I glance at Eli. He’s smiling softly, and I’m reminded of how many times he’s gone through something like this.
People leaving, yeah—here one day, gone tomorrow—but more than that.
The melancholy, the acknowledging of a change that goes beyond horses and competition.
Anyone who ever spent more than a month at Riverlight will miss it.
And one month is a stretch, reserved for the hard shell pieces of work like myself.
This place changes people. From day one.
“Who’s Big Brother?” I ask her.
Her face hides against my shoulder. Is she actually embarrassed? That’s even more terrifying than Rey being soft.
“You,” she says quietly.
The word is so tiny. It echoes through my skull. A brother? A big brother? The responsible one, who protects, who advises? Fuck, who inspires?
Goddammit …
Don’t cry.
I swallow the lump in my throat, nudge her off my shoulder, and lift my arm to wrap it around her. This pixie demon spawn… I’m gonna miss her, for real. Tomorrow. Already.
I clear my throat. “You wanna see something cool?”
Her head snaps up, eyes eager and a little red. Then she gives me a nod that’s more of a rabid twitch that makes both Eli and I chuckle.
My hand extends to him. He gives me the drawing. I hold it in front of Lena.
Her gasp is loud and slightly insane, yet super sweet—exactly like her. “Oh my God. Is that kid from picture?”
I point at Zane’s blocky figure. “Yeah, this kid drew it. Zane Matthews.”
Lena sits up straighter, out from under my arm. “No, other picture. Photo. On social media?”
Acid bursts through my chest. Spikes pierce into my stomach.
My eyes stretch too hard, distorting my vision. They drag to Eli.
He stares back at me, lips gaped, frown heavy. When he asks, “What photo?” Lena is already fishing out her smartphone, tapping, writing, scrolling.
Then she tilts the screen to us. “This one. Is same kid, yes?”
Yes. It’s Zane.
Us. Me and him.
I’m crouched down at his eye level, cap on my head, mask in my hands, fingers stretching the elastics as if ready to hook them around my ears. His eyes are big and full of stars. His smile tiny, contained. Mine’s big, true.
This was when he got starstruck because I said his name— knew his name. Just before I walked away .
I drop the drawing on the table. I think my hand is shaking as I reach for Lena’s phone. Not sure, can’t see anything but the device, the post, my vision sharp but dark around the edges.
Smartphone in my hand—both hands, to stop the trembling—I hold it over my soup. And I just look. At the photo. At Zane’s face. At my face. At the mask in my hands, seconds away from being back around my ears.
Just seconds. Two, maybe three.
“Cassian? You okay?”
It’s Eli. I glance, just a moment. Don’t answer.
I tap the caption.