The SoulWatch: AfterMAGA (BL)

David shifted in his seat, his fingers tracing the edge of his dog-eared notebook. He'd barely slept since Thursday, replaying every moment—the symphony's final notes, Johnny's knee pressed against his, the bathroom stall's harsh light, hands that trembled as they tended his burn. The classroom, with its sterile functionality and fluorescent glare, felt like punishment for wanting something beautiful.

Mr. Samuels stood at the front of the classroom, his wire-rimmed glasses glinting under the faint light as he spoke in a low, measured tone that commanded attention. He was one of those teachers who believed in wearing blazers with elbow patches, as if the fabric itself might absorb wisdom from university libraries and dispense it to his students.

"Consider the Ship of Theseus," he began, his tone inviting reflection. "A ship, its parts replaced over time until nothing original remains. Is it still the same ship?"

He paused, allowing the words to settle over the students.

Mr. Samuels' voice was calm, measured, a beacon of tranquility amidst the subtle hum of tension that always lingered in the halls of the school, "This ship, sailed by the hero Theseus, was preserved by the people of Athens. Over time, as the planks of wood rotted, they were replaced with new ones. Again, the question is: if every part of the ship has been replaced, is it still the same ship?"

David blinked slowly, the question settling in his chest like a dare. Was Johnny still Johnny? The boy who'd knelt on bathroom tiles Thursday night, tending David's burn with hands that betrayed everything his words couldn't say? Or just a ghost wearing Johnny's face?

The question hung in the air, a weighted pause that settled over the room like a tangible presence. David shifted in his seat, his fingers tracing the edge of his dog-eared notebook. The metaphor seeped into his mind. The classroom, with its sterile functionality, felt suddenly claustrophobic, the air thick with unspoken truths.

Abby's hand shot up, her posture straight and assured. "I think it's still the same ship," she said confidently. "As long as it serves the same function, the individual parts don't matter. It's the purpose that defines its identity. What it does. The ship served Athens, carried their hero. That didn't change, even when the parts did."

Mr. Samuels nodded slowly, acknowledging her point, "An argument for continuity, then. But what if the replaced planks were used to build a new ship? Would that be the Ship of Theseus?"

Michelle Ashford, Johnny's younger sister, leaned forward with a smirk teasing the corners of her mouth. Her voice dripped with honeyed sweetness, contrasting sharply with the keen glint in her eyes.

"Sometimes things get better when you replace what's broken," Michelle remarked, her gaze flicking meaningfully towards David. "What about growth?"

Michelle smile became sharp and knowing. "If the changes are drastic enough, does it really matter what it used to be? At some point, you have to accept the reality in front of you." She flicked a glance toward David for a second time, her voice dripping with false sympathy. "Clinging to the past won't bring back what's already gone."

The sound of her voice prickled against David's skin. He kept his gaze fixed on his desk, jaw clenched tight. Michelle's jab hit far too close to home, sharpened by her uncanny ability to zero in on his deepest insecurities.

Mr. Samuels cleared his throat, drawing the class's attention back to the front of the room. "An astute point, Michelle. Change can indeed be a powerful force." His tone was mild, but there was a hint of steel beneath the surface. "Though I would argue that understanding the past is crucial for navigating the present. We are all shaped by our histories, even as we grow beyond them."

As he spoke, Mr. Samuels' gaze drifted to David, a flicker of concern in his eyes. The subtle gesture of support eased the tightness in David's chest, allowing him to breathe a little more freely.

"In the end, perhaps identity is a matter of both continuity and change," Mr. Samuels mused, his voice warm with contemplation. "We carry our pasts with us, but we also have the power to shape our futures. The challenge lies in finding a balance between the two."

David felt the weight of Michelle's words, a sharp sting that pulled him back from his introspection. His heart pounded in his chest, a drumbeat of anxiety and confusion. He could feel the heat rising to his cheeks, the familiar burn of unwanted attention. The room seemed to constrict suddenly, the walls closing in as the laughter echoed around him.

Scattered laughter rippled through the classroom, a knowing undercurrent that set David's teeth on edge.

Mr. Samuels, sensing the shift in atmosphere, stepped in with a quiet authority that was both firm and gentle. He pushed his wire-rimmed glasses up the bridge of his nose, a small gesture that commanded attention without demanding it. "Let's bring the discussion back to the metaphor itself," he said, his voice calm and measured. "The Ship of Theseus raises questions not just about identity, but about continuity and change. How much can something change and still remain, in essence, the same?"

His words acted like a balm, soothing the subtle burn of Michelle's jab and redirecting the class's focus. The laughter faded, replaced by a thoughtful silence as students considered the implications of the metaphor. Mr. Samuels had a way of doing this—guiding the conversation with a deft touch, protecting without patronizing.

David felt a wave of gratitude wash over him, a warm tide that eased the tightness in his chest. Mr. Samuels' intervention had given him a moment to breathe, to steady himself. He looked down at his notebook, the pages filled with doodles and half-formed thoughts, a reflection of his own fragmented state. The metaphor of the Ship of Theseus lingered in his mind, a haunting echo that resonated.

From the middle row, Chastity Rose—hair tucked beneath the regulation GFC headband—lifted one hand, palm pressed to the tiny cross on her necklace for emphasis. "If something's broken," she said, voice clear, "you don't just swap it out like a spare part. You let the Lord rebuild it—piece by piece—until it's stronger than before."

She paused, eyes flicking toward the ceiling tiles as though searching for courage. "When my dad left years ago, people said our family was finished. But Mom and I prayed, and I let God replace the shattered parts in me. I'm the same vessel"—she tapped a finger to her chest - "but made new. Like a Ship of Theseus, only sanctified."

Mr. Samuels didn't directly engage, he never talked about the church, but he subtly shifted the conversation's direction. "An interesting perspective," he acknowledged with a nod to Michelle and then to Chastity. "But let's consider this: is identity solely defined by physical components? Or is there something more fundamental, something that persists even as the external changes?"

As the discussion continued, David sat motionless at his desk, fingers tight around his pen. The metaphor landed heavily in his thoughts, inescapable in its relevance. His mind drifted to Johnny, cataloging the changes that had accumulated like layers of sediment: the military-precise haircut replacing his once-messy locks, the rigid posture that had supplanted his casual stride, the voice that now commanded rather than conversed.

David's pencil hovered over the notebook, but no words came. Johnny's voice echoed—once warm, now commanding. The transformation felt like betrayal.

His mother's voice: "Everything is impermanent, David."

But the comfort slipped through his fingers like sand.

"David?" Mr. Samuels' voice cut through his reverie, a gentle nudge pulling him back to the present. " Would you like to share your thoughts?"

David looked up, his eyes meeting Mr. Samuels' warm gaze. He felt a flush creep up his neck, the weight of the class's attention pressing down on him. "I... I was just thinking about change," he began, his voice steady despite the turmoil within. "About how something—or someone—can change so much that you barely recognize them. But does that mean they've lost their identity, or just that we can't see it anymore?"

"Identity isn't just about what we're made of," Mr. Samuels continued, his voice rang with a mix of importance and uncertainty in David's ears… "It's about the stories we tell, the memories we hold, the lives we touch."

The classroom sounds faded into a distant murmur as David wrestled with the question that had been gnawing at him: Is Johnny still Johnny? And if not, what does it mean to love someone who no longer exists? The pencil in his hand felt heavy, a weight that anchored him to the present even as his mind drifted further away. The illusion goes on.

He remembered the first time he saw those changes, the first time he realized that Johnny was slipping away. It was a small thing, a barely perceptible shift in the way Johnny held himself, the way he spoke. But it was enough to send a shiver of unease down David's spine, a premonition of the larger changes to come. Johnny's lips became a line stripped away of any intention, replaced by slogans from Giant Faith Church and the church's ROTC program.

"But what if the changes are so drastic that it's no longer recognizable?" Abby entered the conversation again, her voice firm with conviction. "At what point does it become something entirely different?"

"It's an important question, isn't it?" Mr. Samuels finally said, his voice measured and calm. "How something can change so much over time, yet still be considered the same thing."

"But can't the way something functions change over time too?" David found himself asking, voice rough with unspoken loss. "What if the purpose shifts so much that it's no longer recognizable?"

Abby turned to him, eyes softening with understanding. "Then maybe the identity does change. But the history remains. Even if it looks different now, that doesn't erase what it once was...or could be again."

Her words settled over David like a tentative hand on his shoulder, offering fragile comfort. He met her gaze, seeing his own disquiet reflected back at him. The ache remained, but it felt a little less lonely.

Suddenly, a small old‑school eraser—one of those chunky, rubbery ones that looked like it belonged in a museum—whizzed through the air and smacked David square on the back of his head. It wasn't the first time he had been the target of these attacks.

The dull thud cracked through his day‑dream like a gunshot. For half a heartbeat the world went white‑hot behind his eyes; then sound and color slammed back in—Abby's pen scratching, fluorescent lights buzzing, Mr. Samuels' chalk tapping. The eraser skittered off his shoulder, bounced across the desk, and landed on the floor with a humiliating plonk. He flinched, the hard plastic stinging against him, and a few students burst into laughter.

David's stomach twisted. Adrenaline filled his veins and he clenched his fist, tight.

It wasn't the first time he had been the target of these jabs, but this one hit differently. It was more blatant, more personal. The laugh of Doug, a jock who always thought it was funny to mess with David, rang through the room. He played on Johnny's baseball team.

David gritted his teeth. His face flushed with the sting of embarrassment, but more than that, anger started to simmer beneath his skin. The Ship of Theseus? Right now he felt like someone had ripped out every calm plank he possessed and replaced it with raw nerves. Why was it always him? Why couldn't he just be left alone?

Mr. Samuels, clearly irritated now, raised his voice.

His usual avuncular demeanor shifted, "Alright, that's enough!"

The class quieted down, but the chuckles lingered in the air. Mr. Samuels' gaze prowled the rows—looking for the culprit, finding nothing but faces suddenly innocent. David could feel his pulse racing, his blood boiling. He glanced down at the eraser on the floor, barely able to control the flare of frustration in his chest.

It lay there like evidence, like proof the room still saw him as replaceable parts: lonely kid, easy mark.

David thought about Johnny.

Johnny wouldn't take this sitting down. He never did. Johnny would stand up, probably call the guy out, maybe smack Doug, maybe crack a joke, and make everyone feel stupid for laughing. He wouldn't let it slide. Not the way David was letting it slide now.

Johnny would do something. He wouldn't stand for it. He'd make sure they knew. Then again, nobody every tried shit like this with Johnny.

David reached down, picked up the eraser, and turned it over in his palm—thumb tracing the dent where it had hit him. Then, with deliberate calm, he set it on the edge of his desk. Not thrown back, not pocketed: displayed. A silent promise to himself not to forget.

From across the room, Doug's FaithWatch pulsed a satisfied green—as if the system itself approved of his cruelty. He caught David looking and smirked, tapping his wrist like he'd just earned points in some invisible game.

The classroom door opened without a knock.

Eli Prophet stood in the doorway, his smile sharp as winter. "Sorry to interrupt, Mr. Samuels. Just observing today's lesson. Don't mind me."

The air felt thinner suddenly, like Eli had stolen some of the oxygen just by speaking.

He took a seat in the back corner, tablet in hand. Everyone's FaithWatch flickered—yellow caution lights spreading through the room like a virus.

David noticed Eli's wrist bore something different: sleeker, with a blue-tinted screen instead of the usual green.

Mr. Samuels' chalk hesitated for just a second before continuing. "As I was saying..."

As the class settled back into a semblance of order, Mr. Samuels cleared his throat, his expression turning somber. The room fell silent, the weight of his next words hanging in the air like a held breath.

Mr. Samuels changed his tone again, carefully choosing his words, "Before we wrap up, I have an announcement I'm required to make."

Mr. Samuels pushed off from his desk, the motion slow and deliberate, as if reluctant to let the philosophical exploration end. David watched him from the corner of his eye, sensing a shift in the room's energy.

Students sensed the shift, their curiosity piqued. Mr. Samuels adjusted his glasses, his gaze sweeping over the room with a gravity that made the air feel heavier.

Mr. Samuels hesitated, a brief pause that spoke volumes. His gaze flicked across the room, meeting David's for a fleeting moment.: "The school has received a shipment of SoulWatch devices. It's an upgrade from last semester's FaithWatches."

A ripple of murmurs spread through the room, a mix of excitement, curiosity and unease.

From the back, Eli Prophet smiled and tapped his own wrist—that sleek new model pulsing with subtle blue light. "They're quite remarkable," he said, though Mr. Samuels hadn't invited comment. "Think of them as early intervention tools. They can identify... problems... before they fully manifest."

About half of the class let out an audible, "Kewll."

Chastity Rose's hand shot up, her voice bright with genuine curiosity. "Are they better at catching things? Like, before they become real problems?" She touched her cross necklace as she spoke, as if the question itself was a kind of prayer.

Eli's smile widened. "Precisely, Miss Rose. Prevention is always preferable to correction."

Mr. Samuels continued, his voice tight. "Participation is voluntary, but highly encouraged. The devices are meant to help you stay connected, to guide you on your spiritual journey." The words sounded rehearsed, a script he was forced to follow.

David felt his stomach twist. He understood the implications ever since The Wipe, the first time people were "encouraged" to trade in their old cell phone and smartwatches. No church watch, no participation in school sports, extracurriculars. For a lot of the parents, no watch meant no job.

Mr. Samuels continued, "They will be available for distribution starting next week. No charge as usual."

David's pulse quickened. What would "early intervention" mean for someone like Johnny? For someone like him?

The bell rang, a harsh intrusion that startled David from his thoughts. The classroom erupted into motion, students gathering their belongings, conversations resuming at normal volume. David moved slowly, deliberately, his movements careful as if carrying something fragile.

Students burst into chatter, laughter rising like steam off a surface David couldn't touch. Their eyes sparkled with excitement, and their smiles stretched wide.

As he approached the exit, a gentle hand on his shoulder startled him from his reverie. Turning, he found himself face to face with Mr. Samuels, the older man's eyes filled with a knowing empathy that both comforted and unnerved him.

"David," Mr. Samuels began, his voice low and tinged with concern. "I couldn't help but notice you seemed particularly affected by today's discussion. If you ever need someone to talk to, my door is always open."

For a moment, David considered confiding in his teacher, yearning for the guidance and understanding that Mr. Samuels seemed to offer. But the words remained locked behind the lump in his throat, the fear of vulnerability and the weight of his secrets too heavy to bear.

"Thank you, Mr. Samuels," David managed, his voice strained but steady. "I appreciate the offer, but I'm fine. Just a lot on my mind, that's all."

Mr. Samuels studied him for a long moment, his gaze searching and filled with an unspoken understanding. "Of course, David. Remember, you're not alone in this. Sometimes, the greatest strength lies in knowing when to lean on others."

With a final, reassuring squeeze of David's shoulder, Mr. Samuels turned and disappeared back into the classroom.

As David stepped into the hallway, the noise of the school enveloped him like a tidal wave. The lights, too bright for his eyes cast a harsh glow, illuminating the chaotic energy of students rushing to their next class. The hallway was a whirlwind of noise and motion, a stark contrast to the introspective atmosphere of the classroom. David navigated the chaos with practiced ease, his shoulders hunched, his gaze fixed on the shiny tiles beneath his feet.

The hallway stretched before him like a chasm of fluorescent truth, the light harsh enough to expose every uncertainty he carried from Mr. Samuels' classroom. His textbooks weighed against his ribs as he navigated the current of bodies, each face a mask of purpose he couldn't quite decipher. The metal lockers lining the walls reflected distorted versions of passing students - warped and elongated.

David's mind still swam with fragments of the discussion—identity in flux, love as anchor or illusion. His fingers traced the edge of his Buddhist philosophy text, the cover worn smooth at the corners. Something about Mr. Samuels' gaze during class had pierced the careful armor he's constructed, leaving him feeling exposed, raw in a way he hasn't allowed himself to be since Johnny first started pulling away.

The hallway narrowed as students clustered in informal constellations, their laughter punctuating the steady percussion of locker doors. David adjusted his grip on his books, feeling the bass rumble of adolescent voices vibrate through the floor and into his bones. There's a rhythm to the chaos, a pattern he once found comforting but now feels increasingly separate from - as if everyone else moves to a beat he can no longer hear.

He rounded the corner, eyes fixed on the scuffed linoleum when a pair of impeccably clean sneakers blocked his path. David looked up to find Michelle Ashford standing beside her locker, her posture a study in practiced poise. Her eyes, so similar to Johnny's in shape but lacking their warmth, narrowed slightly as she registered his presence.

For a moment, they simply occupied the space, two planets in dangerous orbit, caught in the gravity of all that remains unsaid.

"Sorry," David murmured, stepping sideways to pass.

Michelle's hand rose, not quite touching him but effectively halting his movement. "You're still clinging to the old ideas, aren't you?" Her voice carried the precision of a blade, each word carved from ice.

The question landed like a physical blow. David's throat tightened, his pulse quickening beneath his skin. He wondered if Michelle, sitting just a few seats away, had been absorbed by his vivid daydreaming throughout the discussion. Or perhaps Johnny had mentioned something, some fragment of their fading connection still important enough to share with his sister.

"I'm not sure what you mean," he managed, though the lie sat uncomfortably on his tongue. His fingers pressed deeper into the textbook cover, as if he might absorb some wisdom through osmosis, some perfect Buddhist mantra to cut through this moment.

Michelle's gaze flicked to his hands, to the book he's holding, then back to his face. A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. "All that talk about how true love doesn't change, how people shouldn't have to transform themselves to be worthy." She leaned against her locker, the metal giving a soft groan beneath her weight. "It's sweet, really. Naive, but sweet."

Her eyes drifted down the line of his shoulders, pausing on the way his collar framed his neck. "You've grown into that shirt," she added, voice almost conversational. "Stricton's starting to look good on you, David."

"You clean up well at the symphony, too," she went on, gaze sliding sideways. "The music was nice—but you keep forgetting: crescendos don't last. They always fall apart."

A faint smile—more scalpel than warmth—tugged at her mouth before she continued.

Two freshman girls passed, their shoulders nearly touching as they whispered urgently to each other. They glanced at Michelle, then David, before accelerating slightly, as if sensing the tension radiating between them. David watched them go, feeling a strange pang of envy for their evident closeness, for the simplicity of hallway gossip compared to the complex architecture of his own isolation.

"People grow," David said finally, the words emerging softer than he intended. "That's different from changing who you are."

Michelle's eyebrow arched, a perfect curve of skepticism. "Is it? Because it seems to me that growth requires change." She shifted her weight, adjusting the strap of her designer bag over her shoulder. The movement was casual, but there was nothing casual about the way she studied him, as if categorizing his reactions for later analysis.

The space between them seemed to contract. David noticed details he's been too preoccupied to register before—the small gold cross at Michelle's throat, new since winter break; the subtle alteration in her stance, more contained than he remembers; the church pamphlet peeking from her notebook, its corner visible like a deliberate signal flag.

"Johnny's changed," she continued, voice dropping lower, intimate despite the public setting. "Whatever you thought happened at the symphony - whatever moment you two had - it doesn't change what he's becoming. He's found something that makes him better. Stronger." David's chest tightened. So she had noticed. Had probably told Johnny she'd seen them together, seen that private smile they'd shared when Saul announced the shelter grant.

The word "stronger" hung in the air between them, loaded with implication. David's chest tightened with an emotion he couldn't immediately name—not quite anger, not quite grief, but a turbulent blend of both. He thought of Johnny's transformation, how his once easy smile has hardened into something more calculated, how his touch, once electric and seeking, has become mechanical on the rare occasions they still interact.

"Better according to whom?" David asked, the question escaping before he could filter it.

Michelle's expression didn't change, but something behind her eyes sharpened. "According to people who matter in this town." Her fingers tapped against the metal locker, creating a rhythm that sounded vaguely like marching footsteps. "According to reality, David. Not some philosophy book fantasy."

A group of baseball players passed, their laughter a sudden intrusion. David recognized them as Johnny's teammates, but none acknowledged his presence. One nodded respectfully to Michelle, who returned the gesture with practiced grace. The contrast wasn't lost on David—how easily she fits within the social architecture of Stricton Academy, while he increasingly feels like a structural anomaly, a design flaw in the blueprint.

"Reality isn't set in stone," David said, pulling from this morning's Buddhist reading about how nothing's really permanent. "We pretty much decide what's real for us."

Michelle's laugh was light but lacked humor, a sound designed to dismiss rather than express joy. "That's exactly why you're struggling, David. You think everything's a choice." She pushed away from the locker, stepping close enough that he could smell her perfume—something expensive and carefully chosen, with notes that reminded him, painfully, of the Ashford family home. "Some things just are. Fighting that only hurts you in the end."

"Is that what Johnny thinks?" he asked, forcing himself to meet her gaze. "That who he was before wasn't real?"

Something flickered across Michelle's face—a quick, involuntary softening that vanished almost immediately. For a moment, David glimpsed the girl he once knew, the one who would roll her eyes at her brother's jokes, who once confided in David about her own doubts regarding her father's political ambitions. But the moment passed, replaced by the polished facade she now wore like armor.

"Johnny thinks you should move on," she said, each word deliberate. "We all do." She hesitated, then leaned in a fraction, enough for David to catch the warm scent of her perfume. "When you finally decide the past isn't worth the bruises, let me know. We have better things to talk to about than some Ship‑of‑Theseus."

Michelle continued, "Maybe it's just time for you to... focus on other things. Other people, you know? Maybe it would be healthier to focus elsewhere."

The "we" landed with precise cruelty. David felt his isolation crystallize around him, a perfect lattice of exclusion. The hallway suddenly seemed longer, the other students more distant, as if he viewed them through the wrong end of a telescope. His awareness narrowed to the thin line between himself and Michelle, the invisible barrier that has formed between their worlds.

"That's not his decision to make for me," David said, surprised by the steadiness in his voice despite the tremor he felt inside.

Michelle stepped past him, her movement graceful but determined. She paused, her back to him, and spoke over her shoulder. "Things change, David—but not always for the better." The statement hung between them, ambiguous enough to be interpreted multiple ways, yet delivered with an undercurrent that suggested warning rather than comfort.

There was a brief pause. Michelle's gaze lingered, just a little longer than usual, as if the suggestion hadn't quite left her lips, "I mean, you've got a lot of potential, David. It's not just about him. You've got so much going for you."

She said it lightly, but something about the words stuck.

David stood frozen, watching as she walked away, her steps measured and confident against the backdrop of slamming lockers and shuffling feet. The fluorescent lights cast her shadow long on the floor, stretching it into something almost unrecognizable. He noticed how other students parted for her, creating a clear path through the crowded hallway—a small but telling display of the social hierarchy at work.

The bell rang, its electronic tone cutting through his thoughts. Students accelerated around him, a stream dividing to flow past his still form. David remained unmoving for a moment longer, anchored by the weight of Michelle's words, by the absence that Johnny has become in his life. He thought about what Mr. Samuels said—how transformation can obscure one's true self—and wondered which version of Johnny is real: the boy who once pressed him against the bleachers with urgent hands and whispered confessions, or the straight-backed figure who now walks the halls with military precision, eyes focused on some distant, predetermined horizon.

With a deep breath, David forced himself to move, his steps heavier than before. The textbooks against his chest felt like a shield, a boundary between himself and a world increasingly alien to him. He passed a bulletin board plastered with announcements—most prominently displayed, a flyer for Giant Faith Church's youth leadership program, Johnny's face among those featured as examples of "transformation and purpose."

David paused, studying the image. Johnny's smile didn't reach his eyes, which stared back with a flatness that felt like a stranger's gaze. So different from Thursday night, when those same eyes had softened in the bathroom's harsh light, when his FaithWatch had pulsed red with forbidden feeling.

Below the image, bold text proclaimed: "Become Who You Were Meant To Be."

He glanced around the empty hallway, then quickly unpinned the flyer. Not to destroy it—just to fold it carefully and slip it into his notebook. Evidence. Proof that Johnny was disappearing, plank by plank. Someone would notice it missing. Good.