the field’s buzzing, cleats thudding, voices shouting—until everything screeches to a stop. you’re walking up the sideline. slowly. like your limbs aren’t totally sure they remember how to move.

“holy shit,” van mutters under her breath. the rest of the team stares, stunned silent.

you’re in your practice gear, but it hangs on you different now. baggier. like the fabric forgot your shape while you were gone. your cheeks are pale, eyes shadowed, and you’ve lost weight—too much of it.

“you’re not cleared,” jackie says, stepping forward, trying to sound annoyed but coming off more shaken than anything.

you shrug, shoulders sharp under your shirt. “just watching. not playing. i promise.”

misty appears beside you like she was summoned. “you need electrolytes. you’re definitely still at risk for relapse. i brought this hydration mix but it might taste like chalk, i learnt that in the red cross babysitting training..”

“cool,” you sigh, sitting on the bench like that small walk took everything out of you. lottie kneels in front of you, searching your face like it holds answers. “you sure you’re okay?”

you nod softly, shifting on the cool metal of the bench. “just… missed you guys.”

nat tosses you a hoodie from the gear bag, eyes lingering on you for a beat too long. “you look like you fought off death and then flicked it off for good measure.”you grin, weak but real. “felt like it.”

practice resumes, slower, quieter. every now and then, someone glances at the bench—at you—just to make sure you’re okay.