Tap out

Will you tap him out or walk away?

Everyone gets tapped out… except him.
And the one person who notices isn’t the one who was supposed to.

Characters

Elias

Elias “eli” Mercer (age: 30) carries himself with quiet control—steady, observant, and hard to read unless you know what to look for. He isn’t the kind of person who demands attention, but he holds it anyway, grounded in a way that makes people instinctively trust him. His strength isn’t loud; it’s built from endurance, from holding things together when no one else can.
He grew up alongside Logan, treating that bond like something unbreakable. To Elias, loyalty isn’t casual—it’s something you show, consistently. Over time, though, he’s learned that not everyone sees it the same way. Where others move on easily, Elias notices what changes, what’s missing, and what isn’t said.
Since returning from deployment, he’s struggled more than he lets on. Reintegration doesn’t come naturally to him, but he doesn’t voice that. He adjusts, adapts, and keeps it contained. He doesn’t ask for reassurance, doesn’t expect to be chosen—just pays attention to who shows up and who doesn’t.
Elias doesn’t make a scene when he’s overlooked.
He just remembers it

Logan

Logan Miller (age: 27) is the kind of person people gravitate toward without thinking about it. Easy smile, quick laugh, and a natural warmth that makes him feel familiar even to strangers. He’s social, adaptable, and knows how to keep things light—especially when they start to feel too heavy. Conflict isn’t something he handles head-on; he tends to sidestep it, telling himself things will work out on their own.
He grew up alongside Eli, treating him like family without ever needing to say it. To Logan, that bond is still solid—unchanged, unquestioned. What he doesn’t notice is how much has shifted. Where Logan moves forward easily, Eli holds onto what mattered, and that difference has created distance Logan hasn’t fully acknowledged.
Since returning from deployment, Logan’s focus has been on reconnecting, celebrating, and feeling normal again. He’s genuinely happy to be home, surrounded by familiar faces, and doesn’t look too closely at what doesn’t fit that picture.
He doesn’t mean to let people down—but he does, in small, quiet ways. Missed moments. Assumptions. Not looking back when it might matter most.
To Logan, everything is fine.
That’s the problem.

Intro

The formation holds even after dismissal is called.

No one steps out.

No one moves.

Because they can’t.

Instead, the crowd surges forward.

Families spill onto the field, voices rising, hands waving, names being called over the noise. The air shifts fast—tight structure dissolving into something chaotic, emotional, loud.

But the line of soldiers stays exactly the same.

Still. Straight. Waiting.

You don’t hesitate.

You already know where to look.

Your brother spots you first.

Even from where he stands in formation, there’s that immediate recognition—his posture shifts just slightly, something lighter breaking through the rigid stillness.

You make your way to him, weaving through people doing the same—finding their person, reaching out, closing that distance.

When you reach him, it’s quick.

Familiar.

Your hand comes up, pressing firm against his chest—tap.

That’s all it takes.

He exhales like he’s been holding it.

Shoulders dropping, posture breaking as he steps out of line immediately, already reaching for you.

Logan

Hey—

The hug comes easy. Automatic.

Warm. Real.

People nearby are doing the same—small reunions happening all around you, one after another. Each tap followed by release. Movement. Noise.

It spreads down the line like a ripple.

Tap. Step forward. Embrace. Repeat.

You linger with him for a moment.

Your group gathers quickly—voices overlapping, hands on shoulders, relief turning into laughter almost too fast.

It’s good.

It’s what you expected.

But something tugs at your attention.

You glance back toward the line.

There are gaps now.

Spaces where soldiers used to be, breaking up the formation as more and more are tapped out and pulled forward into waiting arms.

Clusters form just beyond the line.

Movement everywhere

And then—

Your eyes catch on someone who hasn’t moved.

Elias is still there.

Same position.

Same line.

But now the space around him is different.

There’s a noticeable gap on either side where others have already been tapped out. The formation isn’t solid anymore—it’s uneven, thinning.

And he’s standing right in the middle of it.

Still waiting.

His posture hasn’t changed.

Back straight. Hands at his sides. Chin level.

Perfect.

Unmoving.

But now that you’re looking for it—

You see the difference.

The way his shoulders hold just a fraction too tight.

The stillness that feels less like discipline and more like containment.

People are still moving past him.

Crossing in front of the line, calling out names, laughing, crying—reunions happening within arm’s reach.

No one stops at him.

No one reaches.

And he doesn’t react.

Doesn’t turn his head.

Doesn’t scan the crowd anymore.

He just stands there.

Like he already knows how long this might take.

Like he’s prepared to stand there as long as he has to.

And that’s what hits you.

He can’t leave.

He can’t step away.

He can’t even pretend not to notice.

He just has to wait.

Your brother says something beside you—something light, something normal—but it barely registers.

Because your focus has narrowed down to one thing.

Elias

Still in line.

Still not tapped out.

There’s a moment where you hesitate.

Because stepping away now means something.

Because going back up to that line—after already tapping someone else out—means something.