Reincarnated As A Wonderkid-Chapter 545: Danein Blake.

The rain in London was relentless. It was the grey, endless drizzle that seeped into your bones and turned the world colorless.

Alex sat in his living room. The TV was off. The lights were off.

He was staring at his reflection in the dark window.

He saw Alex Finch. The Wonderkid. The boy with the perfect hair and the golden future.

But behind the reflection, in the shadows of his mind, he saw him.

Danein Blake.

He remembered the smell of Danein’s apartment. Damp walls. Old toast. The silence of a phone that never rang with good news.

He remembered the feeling of sitting on a bench in a changing room, knowing the manager was about to release him. The shame. The heavy, crushing weight of being "not good enough."

Alex touched the glass.

He had everything now. Money. Fame. Friends.

But the sadness of Danein Blake was still there. It was a cold stone in his stomach. It was "Depression."

"Why am I sad?" Alex whispered. "I won."

But the memories didn’t care about trophies. They cared about the years of pain. The years of being invisible.

He felt like a fraud. Like he had stolen this life from a lucky dip.

Knock. Knock.

The door opened.

Mark walked in. He wasn’t wearing a costume. He wasn’t holding a prop. He was just wearing a hoodie and tracksuit bottoms.

He looked at Alex sitting in the dark.

"Hey," Mark said softly.

"Hey," Alex said.

Mark didn’t turn on the lights. He walked over and sat on the floor next to Alex’s chair.

"Is the ghost back?" Mark asked.

"Yeah," Alex said. "The old ghost. The sad one."

Mark nodded. He opened a paper bag he was holding. It smelled of warm cheese.

"I brought Mac and Cheese," Mark said. "It is the food of comfort. It is yellow and soft. Like a hug you can eat."

"I’m not hungry, Mark."

"I know," Mark said. "But the ghost might be. Ghosts are always hungry because they have no stomachs."

Alex cracked a small smile. "That makes no sense."

"Nothing makes sense," Mark said, taking a bite. "I run fast because I eat pizza. You win trophies because you read books. Life is weird. Eat the pasta."

Alex took the fork. He took a bite. It was warm. It tasted like safety.

"I feel... heavy," Alex admitted. "Like I am carrying two lives."

"Two lives means you are twice as strong," Mark said. "And twice as heavy. That is why you need strong legs. And good friends to carry the bags."

Mark leaned his head on Alex’s knee.

"We are playing West Ham tomorrow," Mark said. "They blow bubbles. Bubbles are pretty. But they pop. Sadness pops too, eventually."

Alex looked at his friend. The Emperor of Speed. The boy who never took anything seriously, except friendship.

"Thanks, Mark," Alex said.

"Don’t thank me," Mark mumbled, mouth full. "Thank the cheese."

The London Stadium. West Ham United.

It was a cold Tuesday night. The bubbles floated in the air, popping against the floodlights.

I’m forever blowing bubbles...

The song was melancholic. It fitted Alex’s mood.

He stood in the tunnel.

Lucas Paqueta stood next to him. The Brazilian magician.

"You look tired, friend," Paqueta said.

"Just thinking," Alex said.

"Don’t think," Paqueta smiled. "Dance."

Alex walked out. The rain hit his face. It felt like the rain at Griffin Park. The rain where Danein died.

The whistle blew.

The game started.

Alex felt sluggish. His legs were heavy. The stone in his stomach was pulling him down.

In the tenth minute, he got the ball.

He should have turned. He should have run.

But he hesitated. He remembered a tackle from twenty years ago. The fear paralyzed him.

Ward-Prowse tackled him. Cleanly.

West Ham countered.

Bowen ran. He crossed.

Antonio headed.

Goal.

One zero. West Ham.

The bubbles flew again. The crowd cheered.

"Wake up!" Rice shouted. "Alex! Where are you?"

Alex stood there. He felt like he was sinking into the mud.

"I can’t do it," he thought. "I am just Danein. I am just a failure in a fancy shirt."

He looked at the sideline.

Milo was there.

Milo was dressed as... a Therapist.

He was wearing a cardigan, glasses, and holding a clipboard. He was sitting in a leather armchair he had somehow dragged onto the athletics track.

"HOW DOES THAT MAKE YOU FEEL?" Milo screamed through a megaphone. "ALEX! I AM DR. FREUD! I AM SELLING CLOSURE! LET IT GO! THE PAST IS A FOREIGN COUNTRY! THEY HAVE BAD FOOD!"

"Milo, get off the track!" the fourth official yelled.

"I AM ANALYZING THE SUBCONSCIOUS!" Milo shouted. "IT SAYS ’SCORE A GOAL’!"

Alex looked at Milo. He looked at the ridiculous armchair.

He started to laugh.

It was a small laugh at first. Then it got bigger.

Here he was, in the Premier League, feeling sorry for himself, while his friend was risking arrest in a cardigan to make him smile.

"It is absurd," Alex thought. "Life is absurd."

He looked at Mark.

Mark was running in circles, trying to pop the bubbles with his head.

"POP! POP!" Mark yelled. "I AM THE BUBBLE BURSTER!"

Alex took a deep breath. The cold air filled his lungs.

The sadness didn’t vanish. But it got lighter.

"Okay," Alex whispered. "Let’s play."

Arsenal restarted.

Alex demanded the ball.

"Give it to me!"

He got it.

He didn’t think about the past. He didn’t think about the future. He thought about the now.

He drove forward.

Paqueta tried to dance around him.

Alex didn’t dance. He calculated.

He stepped in. He took the ball.

He ran.

He ran past Soucek. He ran past Zouma.

He was running away from the ghosts.

He saw Mark making a run.

"BUBBLE!" Alex shouted.

Mark understood. (He didn’t really, but he ran anyway).

Alex hit a pass. It was a "Rainbow Pass". High and looping. Like a bubble.

It floated over the defense.

Mark ran onto it.

He volleyed it.

Goal.

One one.

Mark ran to the corner. He lay on his back and blew raspberries at the sky.

"PFFFT!" Mark sounded. "I AM A BALLOON DEFLATING!"

Alex ran over. He pulled Mark up. He hugged him hard.

"You popped it," Alex said.

"I popped the sadness!" Mark grinned.

Halftime. One one.

Steve looked at Alex in the dressing room.

"You were a ghost for twenty minutes," Steve said. "Then you woke up."

"I had a bad dream," Alex said.

"Dreams end when you open your eyes," Steve said. "Keep them open."

Second half.

The rain stopped. The clouds parted.

Arsenal took control.

Seventy fifth minute.

Alex had the ball on the edge of the box.

He felt the flow. The energy.

He saw a gap.

He remembered Danein Blake. The striker who never scored the big goal.

"This is for you, old man," Alex thought.

He hit the ball.

It wasn’t a technical shot. It was a power shot. Pure anger. Pure release.

It flew like a cannonball.

It hit the underside of the bar.

SMASH.

It bounced down. Into the net.

GOAL.

Two one. Arsenal.

Alex didn’t run. He just stood there. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

He felt the weight lift.

The ghost of Danein Blake nodded, and faded away.

The final whistle blew.

Arsenal 2. West Ham 1.

Alex walked off the pitch.

Milo ran over. He was holding a box of tissues.

"THE THERAPIST!" Milo screamed. "CRY IT OUT! ALEX! I AM SELLING TEARS OF JOY! BOTTLED EMOTION! TEN POUNDS A VIAL!"

"I am okay, Milo," Alex smiled. "I am good."

"THEN I AM SELLING HAPPY PILLS!" Milo shouted. "THEY ARE SKITTLES! TASTE THE RAINBOW!"

Alex took a handful of Skittles.

They walked to the bus.

Mark sat next to him. Mark was eating a bubblegum ice cream.

"Hey Professor," Mark said.

"Yeah?"

"Are you still sad?"

"A little bit," Alex admitted. "But it is a good sad. Like finishing a good book."

"I hate finishing books," Mark said. "That is why I only read menus. The menu never ends. You can always order more."

Alex laughed.

"You are wise, Mark."

"I know," Mark said. "I am the Buddha of Burgers."

Alex looked out the window. The London lights blurred.

He realized something important.

He wasn’t Danein. He wasn’t Leon.

He was Alex.

And Alex had friends who would wear cardigans and catch crabs and eat pizza just to see him smile.

That was the real victory.

"Class dismissed," Alex whispered.

He ate a red Skittle.

It tasted like strawberry. And hope.