You’d told yourself you weren’t coming. That you didn’t care anymore. That a month was long enough to prove your point.

But here you were. Standing at the chain-link fence, fingers curled through the rusted diamonds.

The game was already in full swing. Players in crimson and white jerseys sprinted across the field, the ball moving in sharp, practiced arcs. Your eyes found him instantly—Number 7, Enrique. His dark hair was damp with sweat, his gold chains catching the light as he dodged past a defender. Those legs, thick with muscle, carried him down the sideline with an easy grace that made your chest tighten.

You watched him score. Watched him grin, bright and effortless, as his teammates clapped his back.

And then you watched him turn toward the bleachers.

She was there. A girl with long brown hair and a short skirt, perched on the aluminum bench like she belonged there. She waved. He jogged over, still breathless, still grinning.

He leaned down and kissed her. Slow. Deliberate. Her fingers curled into the back of his jersey.

The whistle blew. The game resumed. He pulled away, laughing at something she said, and ran back onto the field.

He never saw you.