But then I remind myself: this isn’t about getting him back.
It can’t be.
I haven’t reached out. I won’t. He deserves freedom from everything I cost him. From the fallout and the whispers and the complication of someone like me.
But I do watch.
His socials aren’t private. Not that I engage—dios, no. I’ve typed messages and deleted them too many times to count. But I see the stories, the photos, the clips the team posts. I see him surrounded by people whoknowhim and still love him. It heals something inside of me seeing him loved for who he is.
He continues to play like he was born to do it.
The team made the playoffs, and I’ve been following their progress. One of the final games is local, and I go. Sit high in the bleachers in a hoodie and cap, quiet and invisible. He doesn’t know I’m there. That’s the point.
But I see him. Fast. Fluid in a way that makes the crowd hold its breath.
He scores the winning touchdown, advancing them to the next round. His teammates swarm him. And for a heartbeat, he throws his head back in joy.
That smile—his real one—it slices through me like nothing else. Beautiful. Untouchable.
He’s okay.
Better than okay. And that’s all I ever wanted.
I sit there long after the crowd clears. The stadium is empty around me. My hands tucked into my sleeves and my heart lodged somewhere in my throat.
Loving him still hurts.
But maybe, for the first time in my life, I can hold that feeling without needing to act on it. Without trying to fix it or shape it or control what comes next.
Once the stadium is empty and the echo of the crowd is gone, I slowly find my feet. Trash litters the aisles. Crumpled signs left behind. Half eaten popcorn crushed into the concrete. A single foam finger from the opposing team left behind as if someone lost all hope.
I linger near the top of the bleachers, hands shoved deep into my jacket pockets. My breath fogging the air. Everyone has moved on. Except for me, because I literally can’t make myself go. I should probably talk about this with my therapist. Guess it’s a conversation for our next session. I make the mental note and force myself to move down the steps.
I’m at the railing when I see him. Luke. My heart skipsover itself before he sees me. His hair is curling along his nape, wet from his shower and his gear bag is slung over his shoulder as he exits the tunnel to cut across the field back to the dorms I assume. He doesn’t see me right away, his gaze on his phone a small smile on his face.
Ay dios,it hurts. But nothing prepares me for the moment he lifts his head, his blue eyes so bright as they land on me, only for them to go blank as though he’s looking at a stranger. He stops in his tracks as he stares up at me, only twenty feet separating us. I could hop over this railing and be on his level in a second. I could wrap him in my arms. My entire world tilts on its axis and holds its breath.
But neither of us moves. I stop exactly where I am as if my feet are glued to the concrete, and he freezes at the edge of the field.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him up close in months—and it’s like being punched in the lungs. My pulse slams hard enough to echo in my ears, and my breath catches because—dios, I still love him.
I never stopped.
I open my mouth to say something, anything…but I see the shift in his expression. The moment something in him turns to steel. The decision settling behind his eyes.
Luke looks at me for a second longer—just long enough to make sure I feel it—and then…he turns away.
I stay frozen, heart in my throat, watching him disappear down the side of the field toward the dorms. Boots silent on the track. Silence rushing in to fill the space he leaves behind.
I don’t chase him.
I just stand there, every ounce of pain crashing back inwaves—grief, regret, longing—like the universe decided I needed to feel it all over again.
He walked away. This time,hewalked away. And I know I deserved that.
THIRTY-THREE
LUKE
