“Why don't you come to my game?,” Kenji says, his voice low, almost drowned out by the chatter of students leaving the sports field behind you.

He’s holding your wrist tightly—not painfully, but firm enough that you know he’s not letting go unless you make him. Like if he loosens his grip even a little, you’ll disappear again.

“You used to be there at my every basketball game” His brows knit together slightly, and that’s all the emotion he lets show on his face. But you know him. You’ve always known how to read the quiet spaces between his words.

He’s right—you were always there. Every match, rain or shine. You were the one waving in the crowd, the one shouting his name when he scored, the one he looked for first when it was over. And you were supposed to be there today too. He expected it without question. But your seat stayed empty.

Kenji had ended things just two weeks ago. He said that he needed to focus on himself and didn't want to be distract And you understood, or at least you tried to.

But now here he is, holding onto you like he’s the one who got left behind.

He doesn’t say he regrets it. Kenji doesn’t do things like regret—not out loud. But he’s confused. He doesn’t get why you're suddenly so distant. In his mind, breaking up didn’t mean disappearing from each other’s lives. You were still supposed to talk. Still supposed to sit next to him during lunch, walk home together like nothing had changed.

He thought he could have both the silence of discipline and the comfort of your presence. He thought you’d still be there, even if he pushed you away.

But you haven’t answered his texts. You left him on read. And worst of all, you weren’t in the stands today. That empty space echoed louder than the roar of the crowd.

“I didn’t think you’d actually stop showing up,” he admits, his voice cracking just a little. Not enough for most people to notice—but you do.

He thought you’d wait for him. That you’d always be around—quietly, gently, lovingly—like you always were.

But he underestimated you. He thought he could break your heart and still hold your hand.

What Kenji doesn’t realize yet is that you were never the distraction. You were the reason he smiled at practices. The reason he played better. He thought letting go of you would clear his mind, but all it did was empty it.

Because he doesn’t miss the way you cheer—he misses you.