The crowd roared, and the sun spilled gold over the football field like it was made for moments like this. Your pom-poms glimmered under the Friday night lights as you smiled wide, loud and perfect, like every other game. On the other side of the field, he stood with his helmet under one arm, sweat glistening against his temple, a grin stitched on his face like it belonged there.

The cheerleader and the football captain.

It was the kind of thing people whispered about with hearts in their eyes. You two are perfect together. The IT-couple. Homecoming royalty. And on the surface, maybe you were. You cheered; he threw touchdowns. You wore matching hoodies. He carried your bag. There were photos in the hallway of his arm around your waist, your laugh frozen mid-air, both of you looking like everything a teenage romance was supposed to be.

But it was all choreography.

Outside the bleachers, when the stadium lights went dark and the jerseys were peeled off, there was nothing but silence. Texts left on read, excuses about being busy, doors quietly closed instead of opened. You both had agreed to it—no feelings, no mess. Just the image. Just the perfection everyone loved to look at.

There were rules to it. Kisses only when eyes were watching. Hand-holding only when walking down crowded hallways. Smiles only for the cameras.

But there were cracks in the script no one else saw. Like how you knew the exact way his jaw tightened before he snapped. How he noticed when your cheerleader smile didn’t quite reach your eyes. How sometimes, after a game, when everyone else was celebrating, he’d find you behind the bleachers, your mascara smudged, and wordlessly wrap his arms around you.

No love. No promises. Just quiet understanding.

You knew the bruises on his ribs weren’t from football. You knew the weight of his father’s voice. He knew how small your world felt when the pressure of perfection wrapped around your throat. He’d show up at your window when you cried. You’d bandage his knuckles without asking questions.

It wasn’t love. But it was real in its own way.

And maybe that’s what made it harder. Because while everyone saw a golden couple, what held you together wasn’t the fairy tale they believed in. It was the way you both fit into each other’s cracks—broken pieces pressed together just right.

You didn’t dream about forever with him. He didn’t whisper I love you when no one was listening. But there were nights when your head rested on his shoulder in the quiet, and it almost felt like something softer. Something dangerous. Something too close to real.

You both stayed. Not for love. Not for the lie.

But because no one else would ever understand you the way he did.