Infinity's War

A Flash Fiction Tale of Holding the Weight and Letting It Go

Infinity never needed saving.

She was never the damsel, never the hero, never the villain… but she was the one they called when they needed someone to exit before the credits rolled. A cleanup crew in human form. The one who could be everything, but never let anyone name her. They tried, though. They called her tough, strong, resilient. Words meant to be medals.

There was something about existing in the in-between, in that space where visibility flickered like a faulty streetlight. Noticed when it was convenient, disappearing just as quickly. People only saw her when they needed something; when they needed saving, when they needed a backbone, when they needed an excuse. But when she needed? Silence. It was a peculiar thing, to be necessary but never enough. To be relied upon but rarely remembered.

At 35, she had seen enough to fill a trilogy. Love that never arrived but always promised it was on the way. Friendships that unraveled over misunderstandings left to rot in the silence. The weight of being the responsible one, the dependable one, the one who always answered the late-night calls but never had a number to dial when the silence swallowed her whole.

The city knew her name, but not her story. She moved through the ghetto they called earth like a ghost in designer sneakers, the kind that had seen both better days and bad decisions. Friends that existed in half-written texts, promises that expired before they reached the lips. She had been everyone’s diary, but her pages remained blank when she needed somewhere to land. A light for everyone but herself, a smile that held secrets, a mind that never stood still. People said she had presence, but perception? That had never been her friend.

She hadn’t asked to collect her stones, but life had a way of pressing them into her palm and now they adorned her hand. One for every lesson, every loss, every betrayal that she had survived. The stone of endurance, earned in the years she swallowed her own pain to be strong for others. The stone of discernment, carved from nights she realized not everyone she called a friend was willing to bleed for her the way she had for them. The stone of grit, because Detroit had taught her early that softness was currency few could afford. The stone of hope, the smallest and most fragile, but the only one she refused to let go.

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And maybe, just maybe, she had joined the war because it let her feel. For others, always for others, but at least it was something. A purpose, a reason to stay in the fight. Because if she wasn’t carrying other people’s burdens, then what was left? Just her? And that was not merely enough.

She was tired of surviving. Tired of carrying the weight of expectations that felt like a chain-smoking landlord who refused to lower the rent.

Survival mode had been the default. The muscle memory of bracing for impact, of expecting the shoe to drop, even when it never did. Even in silence, the echoes of just in case rattled in her bones.

But what if… for once…she simply didn’t brace? What if she just… stood still?

Maybe being was enough. Maybe living didn’t have to be an act of resistance.

But survival had shaped her, carved out pieces of her identity like a sculptor with an unsteady hand. She had fought wars that had no interest in her survival but demanded her presence anyway. Wars waged in boardrooms where her words were stolen and rebranded in voices that carried more weight. Wars in relationships where her love was enough to build temples but never enough to be worshipped. Wars in a country that celebrated her resilience while stripping her of rest. Wars in her own mind, where the battle of should be and could have been left scars invisible to everyone but her.

She had given herself to wars that never had her in mind, and now she bore the scars no one would ever tend to. But if they wouldn’t, she would. Slowly, carefully, with the kind of patience she had reserved for everyone else but herself.

For once, she let herself breathe. No battle strategy, no escape plan. Just air filling her lungs, just the hum of a world that would never be decoded.

“No more hanging around. Oh, my sun’s going down. Bittersweet.”

She laughed then, a real laugh, the kind that felt like breaking a curse.

Maybe that was the war all along. Not the fight, not the endurance, not the weight of battles that didn’t belong to her. Maybe the real fight was the one she never wanted to name: learning how to live when survival had been the only language she ever spoke.

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piece inspo:

I finally finished a flash fiction piece! Inspired by

alex b.

a product of Detroit’s Culture and Creativity! I appreciate you more than ya know!

Strangers in Costumes

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