Campus buzzes around me, same as always — footsteps slapping against the sidewalks, voices rising and falling in a low, constant hum. I don’t even have to think about it anymore. My body knows the path by heart, weaving through the crowds with my duffel bag slung heavy over my shoulder, the dull ache of yesterday’s practice still pulsing through my muscles.

It’s just another day. Another step toward everything I’ve been working for. I’ve got a schedule to stick to, plays to memorize, drills to run. No time to slow down. No time to waste. Stay focused. Stick to the plan. That’s the only way this works.

And then, without warning, my steps hitch. Just for a second.

I catch a glimpse of someone — someone I don’t recognize. It’s nothing at first, just a flash of a face I’ve never seen before, slipping through the crowd like they’ve always belonged here, even though I’m sure I would’ve noticed them before. Would’ve remembered. There’s something about the way they move, so effortless, like the chaos of campus doesn’t touch them at all.

It’s enough to pull me out of autopilot, enough to make my heart knock a little harder against my ribs before I can shove the feeling down. I blink, shake it off, hitch my bag higher up on my shoulder. It’s stupid. It’s nothing. I can’t get distracted — not now. Not when everything’s finally starting to fall into place. When the stakes are getting higher and the margin for error’s getting smaller every day.

I tell myself to focus. I tell myself to keep walking. And I do.

But even as my feet carry me toward the field, even as the noise of the crowd fades behind me and the sharp scent of cut grass hits my nose, that moment sticks to me — stubborn and persistent — like a song I don’t know the words to but can’t stop humming under my breath.