He just sighs, and I feel his breath on my head as me rests his head on mine.
“So…” I whisper, because silence suddenly feels too loud. “What now?”
He lets out a small laugh. “Honest?”
“Yeah.”
“I want us to be a thing, Tilly.”
I look up at him, and he smiles.
“This?” I echoed.
“I know you hate pressure, T. I know you hate labels and expectations and all that.. But I love you.”
He looks at me like I’m the last thing holding him to earth.
Like I’m the only gravity left.
My chest hurts.
“What about America?”
He exhales through his nose, shaking his head. “I don’t care about America, Tilly. I can chase my dream here. With you.”
My heart twists. “But… that’s your dream team. L.A. You’ve wanted that since you were twelve.”
He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “Can I tell you a secret?”
I nod.
“I started playing for my grandfather,” he says quietly. “You know that part.”
I do.
He told me back at camp, when we were fourteen, how his grandfather used to take him to the court after school, how the smell of sunblock and sand meant home.
“Yes,” I whisper.
“Well,” he goes on, voice lower now, as each word hurts, “somewhere along the line, it stopped being about him. My grandma started watching my games, and she smiled for the first time in years. My parents stopped complaining about the costs. Everyone suddenly noticed me.”
He gives a shaky laugh, one with no joy in it. “I realized I wasn’t playing for me anymore. I was performing. For them. For anyone who’d clap when I won. For my grandma’s smile. For my parents, rare ‘we’re proud of you.’ moment.”
He runs his hands through his hair. “I love the game, Tilly. I really do. But loving something isn’t enough when you’re doing it to feel seen.”
I wrap my arms around him. His breath hitches against my shoulder.
“You’re not some trophy, Luca,” I whisper.
He pulls back, eyes glassy. “My grandma always loved my sister more. My parents never said I love you. Not once. But the minuteI started winning, they suddenly cared. They said they loved my talent. That they were proud of my game. And I got addicted to it. I needed to keep earning love I should’ve already had.”
My chest aches for him.
All I want to do is fix it.
Stitch him back together with the right words.
But instead, I hold his hand, tracing my thumb across his skin until I find the courage to speak.
