But she’s waiting for me to make the next move.
I push through the English Lit building’s doors harder than necessary, the familiar hit of conditioned air and hardwood grounding me immediately. The smell of lemon wax and old books is oddly comforting. Like my father’s study in Newport.
After classes, I head back to the athletic complex for our second team workout of the day.
The echo of bouncing balls, the sharp squeak of sneakers cutting across the court—it all slots into place like it always does.
Here, things make sense.
I grab a ball without breaking stride and start moving, letting muscle memory take over before my head has a chance to catch up.
Dribble. Step. Pull.
Swish.
The sound is clean, honest, final.
I don’t hesitate. I don’t question.
I go again.
Drive hard to the basket, take contact, absorb it, finish anyway. No whistle. Doesn’t matter. I’m already turning, already running it back, already calling for the ball again.
“Vale!”
I hear my name somewhere behind me, but it doesn’t matter. Nothing matters except the next play, the next shot, the next movement.
Because the second I stop—she’s there.
In my head.
In my space.
In everything I’m trying to keep separate.
I steal the ball clean and push it up the court, pulling up from deep without thinking.
Swish.
The gym reacts, voices rising, someone yelling something I don’t catch.
It all fades.
Because out here, I don’t miss.
Out here, I don’t get second-guessed. I catch a glimpse of movement near the doorway as I jog back on defense—just a flash, a silhouette I don’t need to fully see to recognize.
Not close enough to be part of it.
Not far enough to be gone.
Just—there.
Watching.
And I don’t look.
But my body knows.
