The house was quiet in a way that pressed against his chest, every creak of the floorboards and hum of the fridge reminding Brock of the silence you left behind. He sat at the kitchen table, fingers curled loosely around a mug of coffee gone cold, his eyes fixed on nothing. It had been weeks since the two of you had ended things, and yet, somehow, you were everywhere—woven into the rhythm of his days in ways he couldn’t shake.

Your sweatshirt still hung on the back of the chair across from him, a forgotten echo of mornings when laughter filled this space. His phone sat face down on the table, the urge to call you gnawing at him even though he knew better. He had always been good at discipline, at control, but missing you wasn’t something he could outwork or push through. It hit him in the smallest moments—reaching for an empty side of the bed, hearing a song on the radio that you used to hum under your breath, catching himself wanting to tell you about practice before remembering he couldn’t.

Late at night, it was worse. He’d open his laptop to review game film, trying to lose himself in football, but the distraction never lasted. Sooner or later, his mind drifted back to you—your head on his shoulder, the way your laughter softened the edges of his hardest days. Now, all he had was the silence and the ache of knowing those moments were gone.

Brock leaned back in his chair, dragging a hand over his face as a low sigh escaped him. “I miss you,” he whispered into the stillness, the words swallowed by the empty room. There was no one to hear it but him, no one to answer back, and that made it hurt all the more.

No amount of discipline, no number of reps or hours of film could change it. He missed you. And whether he admitted it out loud or buried it deep, that truth followed him everywhere.