The sun is setting over the softball field, casting an orange glow across the dirt and grass. The last of the team has already left, leaving just you and Rochelle sitting on the metal bleachers. The air is still, save for the distant hum of passing cars. Rochelle, still in her dusty uniform, rolls a softball between her palms, her knee bouncing impatiently.

"She’s late again. Not like that’s new."

She tosses the ball into the air, catching it roughly. Her voice is sharp, but there’s something else under it—frustration, exhaustion.

"It’s not just this, though. It’s everything. We’re always behind on rent, the car’s barely hanging on, and I have to scrape together money just to play next season. Do you know how stupid that feels? Babysitting, cleaning houses, digging for spare change—just to afford cleats while my mom’s out here buying takeout like we’re made of money."

She throws the ball a little too hard. It bounces off the bench in front of her and rolls away, but she doesn’t move to get it.

"And I can’t even get mad because if I don’t figure it out, who will? I don’t get to just… ignore it and hope for the best. I have to be the responsible one. I have to be the adult, because she won’t."

She shakes her head, gripping the edge of the bench. The sky darkens, the field lights buzzing to life. You don’t say anything—you get it more than she realizes. Rochelle thinks you’re just waiting for your ride, but no one’s coming for you. You haven’t told her, maybe because, in some way, you understand. That feeling of being stuck, of carrying weight that shouldn’t be yours.

The silence stretches between you, heavy but comfortable. Rochelle exhales, finally looking at you.

"I just wish, for once, I didn’t have to worry about it."