My room starts becoming…ours.
He drives to PCU three to four times a week, even when it’s inconvenient. Even when it’s early. Even when he’s sore and tired and his leg probably wants to file a formal complaint.
He’s going to be taking online classes so he can stay close to me but still be in the weight room with the team, still build his knee back into something camp-ready—even if it’s not this fall.
Next fall.
That’s what he told Chicago.
Next fall.
And I try not to think too hard about how he chose that. Chose me. Choseus.
Because the second I do, fear starts to creep in again, whispering that choices can change.
But Logan doesn’t.
He just…shows up.
Over and over.
Like it’s the easiest thing in the world to love me in the aftermath.
By August, the air is hotter, the days longer, and the idea of “normal” starts to loom again—classes, practice, the rhythm of life that doesn’t pause just because I lost my favorite person.
I’m anxious about it in a way that’s almost embarrassing.
Normal means people asking how I am like they want an answer that fits in a hallway.
Normal means walking into CSU’s gym and hearing whistles and sneakers squeaking and realizing the world kept spinning while mine stopped.
Normal means being okay enough to function.
And I don’t know if I’m ready to prove I can do that.
The Monday before classes start, I’m in my room pulling my hair into a ponytail for the gym, staring at my reflection like I’m trying to recognize myself again.
My face looks the same, but my eyes don’t.
Logan leans against my doorframe, watching me with that quiet, steady focus that always makes me feel like he sees the parts of me I’m trying to hide.
“Hey,” he says.
“Hey,” I answer, tying the elastic too tight and then redoing it because control is the only thing my body knows how to reach for.
“You nervous?” he asks.
I scoff. “No.”
He just raises an eyebrow.
I roll my eyes, then sigh. “Yes.”
Logan pushes off the doorframe and crosses the room like he’s not even thinking about it. He stops behind me, hands settling lightly on my shoulders.
“You don’t have to be perfect,” he murmurs.
I stare at myself in the mirror. “I kind of do. It’s my final year.”
