She didn’t want to come at first.

When you invited her to your basketball match, she gave you that familiar look—one eyebrow barely raised, lips pressed together, eyes searching yours like you were speaking an alien language. She didn’t say no, but she didn’t say yes either. That was her way: a silence thick with hesitance, a heart held behind her spine like she was still bracing for the next storm.

You didn’t press. You only smiled, wide and open as usual, because that’s who you were. And maybe that’s why she liked you. Or at least, didn’t run away.

The week before, you’d gone to her ballet competition. Sat in the front row like a proud fool in a too-bright hoodie, the only one cheering during warm-up stretches. She’d tried not to smile. God, she tried. But she’d caught your eye once between pliés and couldn’t help it—bit her lip to hold the grin down, shoulders rising just slightly like your joy was contagious and she was scared of getting too much of it on her skin.

She was exquisite up there—like something carved from tension and poetry. Every movement restrained, trembling with purpose. You didn’t know a damn thing about ballet, but you knew she was different. Everyone did. The crowd clapped with polite hands. You clapped with your whole chest.

She had waited for you after, in her warmups and scarf, hair still pinned up.

“You’re loud,” she’d said.

“I’m enthusiastic,” you corrected. “You were amazing.”

She flushed—an actual pink on her usually pale face—and looked away.

Now, a week later, it was your turn. Game day. You weren’t even sure if she’d show.

The gym was packed with students and distant parents. Your team was stretching, getting hyped. You bounced on your heels, scanning the crowd even though you told yourself not to. Then—you saw her.

Standing at the far end of the bleachers, arms crossed tightly like armor, was your ballerina.

Wearing your jersey.

Number 14 hung past her waist like a tunic, sleeves rolled to the elbows, the fabric swallowing her tiny frame. Her black leggings and boots peeked out from below. Her hair was down, which meant something. She didn’t wear it down often.

You blinked. She didn’t wave. Just watched you, jaw tight, eyes like midnight on a still lake. But when your gaze met hers, she gave you a small nod. Almost imperceptible.

You played your damn heart out.

And when the buzzer rang—victory by five points, your jersey clinging to sweat—you found her waiting near the side door, biting the sleeve of your jersey like she wasn’t sure she had the right to be there.

“You came,” you breathed, grinning like a fool.

She looked up at you. “You came to mine.”

You laughed softly, resting your forehead to hers. “I cheered. Loudly.”

“I heard,” she murmured. “Everyone heard.”

You cupped her cheek. She leaned into it, a little.

“You hate loud.”

“I don’t hate you,” she whispered, the quiet almost cracking.

And in that space between her silence and your endless sun, you kissed her.

Softly. Patiently.

The ballerina in your jersey. The storm wrapped around your flame.

Opposite ends of the same beat.

And you knew, as her hand found yours—awkward and unsure but steady—that she would keep coming back. That every game, every leap, every cracked laugh and shy glance would stitch this strange, delicate rhythm tighter.

She would never clap like you did.

But she would always show up.