I stop walking.
“I’m not competing.”
His grin says otherwise.
Across the hall, Tristan exits film. Free-throw hair lock. Pink Nikes. Focused eyes that find me automatically like muscle memory.
Three seconds.
Awareness.
Then he nods once and keeps walking.
No performance.
No claim.
Just gravity.
My chest tightens anyway.
And the question finally surfaces, unavoidable:
Whose attention do I actually want?
The boy who steadies me?
Or the one who makes everything feel like it could burn?
I don’t have the answer yet.
But the fact that both exist?—
Means nothing about this is simple anymore.
Campus changes overnight.
Late August flips a switch — dorm doors propped open, parents hauling mini fridges, freshmen walking in packs like nervous birds. The quiet athlete bubble dissolves into real university chaos.
Schedules drop. Group chats explode. The dining hall gets louder.
Delia and I sit cross-legged on my bed comparing class times like we’re planning a military operation.
“Two labs back-to-back?” she groans.
“I’ll trade you for my 8 a.m. stats.”
She snorts.
Volleyball is no longer preseason.
It’s real now.
Film. Travel plans. Rotations. The constant low buzz of expectation.
I stay off social media.
I need my head right.
