Because the second I step back into the athletic complex, the looks start again.
Not cruel.
Worse.
Pity is always worse.
Cruel I can spar with.
Cruel I can slice up and send back to the kitchen.
Pity just sits there in someone’s eyes like a wet paper towel and expects you to thank them for it.
A girl from soccer gives me a soft smile in the hallway.
A baseball trainer suddenly becomes fascinated by the wall when I pass.
Two swimmers stop talking the second I come around the corner and then overcorrect by beingtoo loudabout literally anything else.
I keep walking.
Head high.
Spine straight.
Lip gloss perfect.
Because if this campus wants me to be the fallen girl in someone else’s power-couple launch story, they are going to have to work a hell of a lot harder for it.
By lunch,S&Tis everywhere.
Screens.
Whispers.
A photo collage on some ridiculous student-run athletics page with fire emojis in the caption.
A grainy TikTok edit set to a song about obsession.
An ESPN college sports repost of Stella’s playoff clip right next to a still of Tristan’s road-game highlights like the internet collectively decided they’re now some kind of cross-platform athletic monarchy.
Cool.
Love that for me.
I carry my salad and iced coffee to a table outside the student center and spend exactly six minutes pretending I do not know why three girls at the next table keep glancing over.
Then one of them says, not quietly enough, “She’s still so pretty, though.”
I stand up with my tray and leave before I commit a felony with a compostable fork.
By the time the afternoon rolls around, I am hanging on by dry shampoo, eyeliner, and pure southern pageant violence.
I tell myself it will fade.
Campus always finds a new fixation.
Someone will cheat on a finance exam.
