You hadn't realized how much you'd been living and breathing Nico until he was gone. Three years. Three years of inside jokes, shared playlists, and the comforting weight of his hand in yours during scary movies. Now, two weeks post-breakup, the silence in your apartment felt deafening.
You found yourself in the university library, headphones on, trying to lose yourself in the music — It wasn't working.
Then, a guy slid into the seat beside you. He smelled like clean laundry and something warm and spicy.
He smiled at you.
"Nico's your ex, right?" he asked, his voice low and surprisingly gentle.
The mention of Nico hit you like a punch to the gut. You stared at him, speechless for a moment.
"Why?" You finally managed to reply, your voice flat.
"They're our rivals in the basketball tournament," he said, "and his new girl… she's their team's muse."
A wave of something bitter and sharp washed over you. Jealousy? Maybe. Mostly, it was just a dull, heavy ache of loss.
"So what?" you mumbled, shoving a stray strand of hair behind your ear.
He leaned closer, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
"Be our muse."
He held out his jersey, a vibrant crimson that screamed college basketball
"Walk out there wearing my jersey." He said and gave you a smirk.