She returns the favor, brings her teammates to my matches, heckles the refs in a voice that could cut concrete.
We start “studying” together, which means finding the quietest corner in the library and seeing who can go longest without making the other laugh.
Sometimes we do homework; mostly we just talk.
By spring, everyone on campus has an opinion about us.
The student magazine runs a “Campus Couples” feature with a photo of us in our jerseys, arms slung around each other, both of us pretending we don’t love the attention.
The caption calls us “the next generation of Seattle sports royalty.” I keep the clipping in a box under my bed.
Even now, years later, it feels more like evidence than nostalgia.
I think I loved her. I really do.
Or at least, I loved the way she made everything make sense.
When I was with her, I knew my role, be steady, be strong, never let anything crack the surface.
She was the only person who ever called me on my shit and made me like it.
But somewhere along the way, it all calcified.
The late-night talks turned into late-night negotiations, whose turn to do laundry, who left the kitchen a mess, who missed which game and why.
The world expected us to last, so we did. Out of habit, out of pride, out of not wanting to be the ones who failed when everyone was rooting for us.
Now, in her living room, watching the ghost-blue light of the TV play across her face, I can see the old version of us like a double exposure, the couple we were supposed to be, and the two people stuck in the ruins of that story.
I’m so deep in the memory I don’t notice her watching me. She tilts her head.
“D?” she says, soft this time, like maybe if she asks gently I’ll give her the truth.
I want to tell her everything.
About the weight I carry, about how every day I’m terrified I’m just one slip away from losing the only thing that ever made sense.
About how sometimes I wonder what it would feel like to just stop trying so fucking hard to be the best at everything, to just exist without expectation.
But all I manage is, “Sorry. Zoned out. Long day.”
She nods, but the disappointment in her eyes is so thick I almost choke on it.
“Yeah,” she says. “Me too.”
And just like that, the memory snaps back to reality, and the space between us is wider than ever.
———
Nia falls asleep twenty minutes into the documentary, head slumped to my shoulder, the softest snore leaking past her lips.
I don’t move. I barely breathe.
For a while, I just watch the shadows on the wall, the way they lean and stretch across the ceiling as cars sweep past below.
I wait until her breathing levels out, then, slow, deliberate, I slide out from under her, cradle the back of her head so it doesn’t thunk against the cushions.
She’s heavier than I remember. Maybe I’m just more tired.
