Font Size:
I swallow.
Hard.
This isn’t high school.
This isn’t Royal Oaks.
This isn’t stolen glances and almosts that never go anywhere.
I don’t want almost.
I stop walking.
My father notices immediately.
“¿Qué pasa?”he asks.
What’s wrong?
I shake my head once.
Nothing.
Everything.
“I thought…” I start.
Then stop.
Because saying it out loud makes it real.
I exhale slowly.
“I thought I was over it.”
His gaze sharpens.
“¿Sobre qué?”
Over what?
I look back toward the gym again.
This time, I don’t pretend.
“Him.”
There’s a pause.
Heavy.
Measured.
“And you are not,” my father says.
Not a question.
A statement.
