~| •. ˗ˋ ୨♡୧ ˊ˗ .• |~

Lynn was sitting on the bleachers after practice, waiting for you. The sun just starting to dip behind the bleachers. Her gym bag’s tossed to the side, and she’s peeling off her wraps with a wince. Her fingers are covered in plasters again—new ones layered over old spots.

When you finally showed up and sat next to her, you noticed her hands that were in bandages because of her sport hobby.

She looked up at you and smiled. She then holds her hand out toward you, palm up, bruised and bandaged.

“Would you still hold my hand,” she says, eyes meeting yours, “if it looked like this?”

She’s always been the strong one—quick on her feet, faster with a comeback—but right now, she’s just hoping you’ll reach back, looking at you.