“Sundown in the Outfield”

Junior year wasn’t anything special—just hallways that smelled like pencil shavings and vending machine pretzels, lockers with broken hinges, and the buzz of the overhead lights that never stopped humming.

But there was Kevin. Always Kevin.

He sat two rows in front of you in English, wore the same faded hoodie like a uniform, and sometimes tapped lyrics onto his notebook when he thought no one was watching. You were. Always.

On Thursdays after class, you’d both end up on the old baseball field behind the school. Not because either of you played, but because it was the quietest place to say nothing and still feel understood.

“I like it when you laugh,” Kevin said one afternoon, his voice barely above the sound of the wind. “It makes the air feel less heavy.”

You smiled without meaning to, clutching your knees to your chest. “You don’t talk like that to other people.”

“I don’t talk to other people much.”

It was silent again. But the good kind—the kind where the grass itched beneath your jeans and the sun hit his jaw just right, and it felt like maybe this weird aching thing in your chest was something real.

“You ever listen to Alex G?” he asked, lying back in the grass.

“Yeah,” you said. “Harvey is my favorite.”

He turned his head to you, hair falling into his eyes. “Of course it is.”

You wanted to ask what he meant. But then he said, “When I listen to that song, it makes me think about you.”

Your heart stuttered, but you played it off. “Why?”

“’Cause it feels like dreaming out loud. Like all the weird parts of me aren’t so weird when you’re around.”

He didn’t look at you when he said it, and you were grateful. Because you were staring. Burning his words into your memory.

You laid down beside him. Your shoulders barely touching. The sky overhead was going pink, and the cicadas were starting to sing.

It didn’t feel like a big moment. But it was.

“I think you’re the best part of my day,” you whispered.

Kevin looked over. And that small, crooked smile of his broke something soft inside you.

“Same,” he said. “Every day.”