Lockdown Hearts

Let me take you back.

Not to some epic moment, not yet. Just… the beginning. I’m Ethan, eldest of four, born in a house that was never quiet. Mum, May, held us down. Dad, Adam, kept us dreaming. My brothers, Khan and Rif, were my shadows, always scrapping or teaming up depending on the day. Then came Ashby—our family’s plot twist, born sixteen years after me, toddling through our chaos.

Growing up, life wasn’t a breeze, but I wouldn’t say it was a storm either. You see, life’s hard to gauge when you've never known anything else. It was a constant hustle for everything—from the basics to the things that made life a bit more exciting. But in a weird way, we didn’t really mind. We didn’t know what “easy” was, so how could we miss it? The struggles just became part of the rhythm, like a song you’re used to hearing over and over, and before long, you start humming along without realizing it.

Our neighbors were two sisters, Shir and Starr, who went to the same primary school as I did, though we never really talked much. It was one of those casual, nod-and-smile types of relationships. That was until the end of a school year when things took an unexpected turn. Shir’s report card was… let’s say less than stellar. The girl was dead last—20th out of 20 pupils. And I know, that sounds harsh, but hey, we all have our moments, right?

Now, on my side, I was feeling pretty proud of myself. I had done well that year. In fact, I was 2nd out of 38 pupils—nothing like a little healthy competition to keep things interesting. With my report card in hand, I was practically floating down the street, envisioning the celebratory meal my dad promised for my efforts. But as I approached my house, I saw Shir, face buried in her hands, sobbing like her world had just come to an end.

Naturally, I stopped in my tracks. We hadn’t exactly been friends, but seeing her upset stirred something in me. I asked her what was wrong, and through her sniffles, she showed me her report card. She was terrified about what her parents were going to do when they saw how badly she did. Now, I had always had this crazy idea that I could fix problems with simple solutions, so I immediately started thinking.

A little sly smile crept onto my face as I looked at her report card. “Why don’t you just rub off the zero and leave the 2?” I suggested, like I had just discovered the secret to eternal happiness. “That way, you’re 2nd in the class.”

Her eyes lit up. She stopped crying. And just like that, I was a hero in her eyes. She was happy, I was happy. The world seemed like a much better place.

So, I walked back home, ready to enjoy the fruits of my labor: a good meal, some praise, and the feeling of having crushed my school year. But then… I heard the unmistakable sound of yelling from next door. It was Shir’s mother. My heart sank. Slowly, I crept toward the noise, my feet dragging as though they were already weighed down by guilt. I peeked around the corner and saw Shir, bent over, getting a little more than a “talking to.” Turns out, her parents weren’t as naive as I thought. Shir’s mom wasn’t as upset about the poor grades as she was about Shir’s decision to doctor the report card. After a few well-placed spanks, Shir shouted, “That boy, Ethan, is the one who told me to rub off the zero.” my heart nearly stopped. 

Shir’s mom did what any reasonable adult would do: she called me out but I just curled up and disappeared. She came knocking at my door not long after, asking me if I had any more genius ideas for improving grades. I was too embarrassed to admit I was the architect of her daughter’s academic dishonesty.

But here’s the funny thing:

In the days that followed, something unexpected happened. Shir and I became friends. At first, it was awkward. I had essentially inadvertently thrown Shir under the bus, and now I had to live with that. But somehow, we found our rhythm. Starr, Shir’s sister, became a part of the mix too. I wasn’t the kid from next door anymore, I was becoming a confidante, a partner-in-crime. We laughed about how I had “saved the day” with my brilliant plan, but also how it completely backfired. It wasn’t the last time I would try to show my impulsive acts of kindness (or stupidity, depending on how you look at it). So, what started as a not-so-thought-out plan to avoid a beating turned into one of the most important friendships of my childhood.

And that, my friend, is how I learned that even the worst ideas can sometimes lead to the best outcomes —and also that maybe, just maybe, I should think twice before giving out advice. But hey, at least I got a good story out of it. 

That was childhood. Shir? She forgave me for almost getting her killed, so I figured the world couldn’t be that bad. 

But then came the girl who broke things. The one who didn’t hesitate. If childhood taught me the value of intention, teenagehood taught me the cost of trust. 

Her name was Beatrice. And I loved her the way fools love fire.

Beatrice was a ray of sunshine. One of those girls whose smile could split through your worst day like a hot knife through ice cream. Laughter like music. Eyes that pulled you in and made you forget how to form sentences. I was just... me. The guy behind the guy. Quiet. Observant. Stuck somewhere between invisibility and average. 

But I had Andrew. My best friend. Loud. Bold. He used to nudge me every time Beatrice walked past us in class, whispering dumb pick-up lines in my ear, daring me to talk to her. “Just say hi man. She’s not gonna bite you know.” 

So, yeah, I said hi. Stuttered through it, probably looked like a fool, but Beatrice laughed—not at me, with me. We started talking, walking home together, her teasing me about my old sneakers. Days turned to weeks, weeks to months, and somewhere in there, we became a thing. Holding hands under desks, sneaking kisses behind the school library. Shared snacks and dreams. Laughed at things only we understood. I loved her. Swear she loved me too. Life? Life was good. School stopped feeling like a prison sentence. Love was this warm, exciting thing I woke up looking forward to. I was the luckiest guy alive. 

Then came December 22nd. My 18th birthday. She and Andrew planned a surprise party for me—something small, wild, teenage chaos-style. It was hosted at Andrew’s place since his folks had gone to the village for Christmas. A dream setup.

When I walked into Andrew’s house, the lights flicked on, and a crowd yelled, “Surprise!” My chest swelled. Beatrice was there, glowing in a yellow dress, pulling me into a hug that smelled like her vanilla lotion. Andrew slapped my back, handed me a beer. “Big man’s legal now” he shouted, and everyone laughed. Starr and Shir were there too, hugging me and wishing me a happy adulthood. 

The party was wild. We drank, smoked. Did what teenagers do when they think they’re grown. I was high on it all—on the love, the freedom, the celebration. I was surrounded by my people, and Beatrice was mine.

Time blurred like it does when you’ve had too much to drink and not enough food. One minute you’re vibing, next minute you’re wandering through a haze looking for your girl. I hadn’t seen Beatrice in a bit, so I went looking. Checked the kitchen. The balcony. No sign.

Then I thought—maybe Andrew knows where she is.

I stumbled toward his room, high but giddy. The door was closed, so I pushed it open, calling out his name. “Yo, Andrew, you seen—” and froze. He was there, shirtless, fumbling to cover himself. Someone was with him, tangled in the sheets. My drunk brain thought, “Ha my boy finally scored tonight.” 

I started to laugh, to say sorry, but then I saw it. That yellow dress, crumpled on the floor. Beatrice’s face, wide-eyed, scrambling to pull the sheet up. 

Time stopped. My head spun, but not from the weed or the alcohol. It was her. Beatrice. With Andrew. My knees went weird. Andrew was scrambling for his shirt. Beatrice was saying, “It’s not what it looks like.”

But it was.

It was exactly what it looked like.

My girlfriend and my best friend—on the day they planned for me—screwed me over in the worst way possible.

I turned around and walked out. Just like that. The party noise hit me like a wall—laughter, music, all wrong now. I pushed through the crowd, ignoring Starr calling my name, Shir grabbing my arm. “Ethan, you good?” she asked, but I couldn’t answer. Kept moving. 

I got home and stared at the ceiling all night. My phone wouldn’t stop. Texts. Missed calls. Voice notes. From both of them. Trying to explain. Apologize. Beg. I didn’t respond. What was there to say?

That I hadn’t seen what I saw? That they slipped? Tripped and landed on each other naked? Nah.

The next days were a blur. I shut down, phone off, curtains drawn. Mum tried to talk, but I just mumbled, “I’m fine.” I wasn’t. Starr and Shir showed up, wouldn’t leave me alone.

They pulled me back, slow, like stitching a wound. But something broke that night, something I couldn’t fix. I used to believe in love, in forever, in Beatrice’s smile. Now I knew better. Love was a trap, a blade you handed someone to cut you with. Girls? You could laugh with them, flirt, keep it light. But let them close? The knife’s already in your back. All they have to do is twist.

So I stopped letting them in. If love was fire, I learned to stay near enough for warmth, but never close enough to burn.

I didn’t hate women. I just stopped believing in the idea that they could be safe. Not in that way. Not anymore.

I never heard from Beatrice again. Or Andrew. I changed schools. Changed me.

Then I met James, King and Leon.

And that, my friend, is where the trouble really began.