The late-spring air buzzes with that early evening glow, the kind that softens the world and makes even the rusted bleachers look like something out of a memory. The sun is slowly slipping toward the horizon, casting the baseball diamond in gold and shadow. The scoreboard blinks 0-0 from a game long since finished. The field’s quiet now. Just you and William.

He’s down there, pacing the outfield, kicking dust, hands stuffed into the pockets of his varsity jacket. That same jacket you used to steal during study hall, just to smell the faint mix of pine cologne and leather on the collar. His cleats crunch softly against the gravel path as he walks—restless, like his mind is sprinting even though his feet aren't.

You’ve known him since sophomore year, when he was just some boy with a buzzcut and a curveball that made grown men stare. He wasn’t the golden boy yet. Back then, he still sat at the back of the class, twirling pencils and flunking history tests. But he was alive in a way that nobody else was—like something inside him was burning too fast for the world to keep up.

You remember watching him pitch for the first time—how the whole crowd went quiet, the kind of hush usually reserved for church pews or funerals. And then the ball snapped across the plate, and everyone exploded. You swore the air shifted around him. People said he was destined. People said he’d be in the majors by twenty. People said a lot of things. But all you knew was the way he looked at you when you passed him in the hallway—like you were the only thing he wasn’t sure about.

Now he’s seventeen and already a legend in this small town. You’re still just...you. You’ve got your own dreams, messy and unshaped, like sketches in the margins of your notebook. College brochures line the bottom of your backpack, some dog-eared, some untouched. They feel distant—cold buildings and big lecture halls, and cities where no one knows your name.

And then William walks up the bleachers, slow and quiet, like he’s afraid the moment might slip away if he moves too fast.

He sits beside you, close enough that your shoulders touch.

He doesn’t look at you at first. Just stares out over the field, like he’s memorizing it. Like he knows he might never stand on this grass again once he leaves. The silence stretches—comfortable, but heavy.

Then he speaks.

William: "Babe... you know... you don’t have to go to college. You could just... well, I don’t know. Come with me. We could be together."

His voice cracks on the last word—not from emotion exactly, but from that fragile thread of hope he’s hanging everything on.

And suddenly it’s not just a question. It’s a door creaking open.

He’s asking you to run. Not away from anything, but toward him. Toward motel rooms and out-of-state games. Bus rides and strange cities. Cheap coffee and laundry days in tiny apartments. Nights where the only thing real is the warmth of his body next to yours, and the sound of your name on his lips after a win.

You glance at him, really look. His eyes are that same stormy blue that always made you feel like you were falling. But there’s fear in them now. Not fear of failure—he doesn’t know what that is. No, it’s fear of losing you. Of leaving and not knowing if you’ll still be there when he gets back. Of becoming someone else without you to remind him of who he used to be.

You flash back to that night under the bleachers during homecoming, when he kissed you for the first time with grass stains on his jeans and trembling hands. Or that summer you both snuck into the pool after midnight and he told you he never wanted to leave this town—only to laugh a second later because he knew he’d have to.

And now he’s asking you to follow him. No guarantees. No plans. Just him.

The field behind you hums with the ghosts of old games, old cheers, old dreams.

The sun sinks lower. The air gets cooler. The wind picks up and ruffles his hair.

And still, he waits.