Riley Paige

“But when the noise fades and the water runs hotter, my stomach twists. Celiac. The word still feels foreign, like it doesn’t belong to me. But the diagnosis was clear. Years of stomach issues, getting sick after meals, the colds that lingered too long, the energy that never stayed consistent—it all had a name now, something to blame. I lean a hand against the slick tile, shutting my eyes against the sting that has nothing to do with the water. Gluten-free. No more late-night pizza. No beers at the bar after practice. Every bite from here on out has to be checked, double-checked, sometimes even triple-checked. One mistake, and I’m wrecked for days. Did you know that even some tooth paste has gluten? And shampoo? I didn’t either, but it’s true. Don’t even get me started on the limited beer selections. Any party I attend, my cups now consist of water or another safe option, normally courtesy of my good friend Jack. It shouldn’t scare me this much, but it does. Because this body is my shot, my future. If I can’t trust it, what else do I have?”
― Riley Paige, Play Fake