“I miss you,” he’d whispered, so quietly, I almost thought I’d imagined it. Then he’d straightened up and walked out, leaving me sitting there trying to remember how to breathe.
We maintained a text thread that was technically professional: discussing training schedules, reviewing game footage, coordinating practice times. But there was subtext in every message, a second conversation happening beneath the surface.
Adan
Review tomorrow at 7?
Me
Of course. Same room as always.
Adan
Looking forward to it.
Three innocent sentences that meantI need to see you,I’ll be there, and.I’m counting the hours.
My phone buzzed again. This time, it was from him.
Adan
Can’t sleep. Big game tomorrow.
I checked the time: nearly midnight. He should be resting.
Me
You need sleep. You know the plays.
Adan
Not worried about the plays.
Me
Then what?
A long pause before his response.
Adan
Three more months feels like forever.
I stared at the words, my heart aching for him. I started typing responses and deleted them all. Finally, I wrote:
Me
I know. But you’re so close to everything you’ve worked for.
Adan
Yeah. Doesn’t make it easier.
Me
No. It doesn’t.
Adan
