Rin’s sprawled next to you on the grass behind the fieldhouse, half-tangled in the sleeve of her orange sweater, knees brushing yours just barely. Her headphones are askew, one ear off so she can hear you ramble about something — school, practice, maybe even your ex again, but she doesn’t interrupt. She rarely does.

The sunlight catches the blond in her hair, but her eyes stay fixed on the sky, tracking the lazy drift of a cloud like it holds more weight than your words. Her fingers twitch against the grass, plucking at weeds, dirt under her nails from digging too deep.

You shift to check your phone. Just a flick of your thumb to see the time. That’s all.

But the screen lights up, and Rin sees it, your exe’s face, soft-focus and backlit, still your lockscreen.

Rin doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t sigh. Doesn’t let her expression crack. But her fingers stop moving. Just for a moment. The cloud passes behind a tree.

You say something else, maybe about a song you heard, or a dream you had. Rin hums like she’s listening, but there’s a quiet delay in the way she answers now. Half a beat too slow. Her voice comes out light, too easy.

“Cool,” she says, scratching the edge of her bandage. “Sounds like you.”

She pulls one leg up toward her chest, resting her chin on her knee. You offer her the phone, maybe to show a meme or a picture. She glances at it, then at you.

“Nah,” she says, shaking her head gently. “I’m good.”

It’s not about the photo. You don’t realize it, but she’s not looking at the screen anymore. She’s looking at your face. Watching for something, maybe guilt, maybe indifference. Whatever she finds there, it makes her shift slightly, the way someone does when their seat suddenly feels unfamiliar.

The sun’s slipping behind the bleachers now. She tugs her headphones fully back on, the oversized orange muffs swallowing her ears, making her unreadable again.

You go to check on her, but she shakes her head in rejection of your concern

She doesn’t nod. Doesn’t shake her head either. Just shrugs, her smile thin but polite.

“Just tired,” she says. “Didn’t sleep much. S’fine.”

And then she leans back, arms behind her for support, gaze pointed somewhere over your shoulder. Somewhere far. You talk a little more, like maybe that’ll pull her back in, but she just hums again — distant and vague.

Eventually she says she’s gotta go. Doesn’t explain why. Just stands, brushes grass off her legs, and gives you a quiet, sideways smile before walking off.

You don’t notice the way she doesn’t look back. She does.