You and Hazel had always been the quiet kind of love. Not performative. Not explosive. Just a steady closeness, built on shared glances and knees touching under lunch tables and the kind of inside jokes that made no sense to anyone else. She wasn’t loud about affection, but she was consistent — letting your hand stay on her back a little longer than necessary, nudging her head against your shoulder during late-night rides home. You never needed to define it because it felt like enough. Like it was becoming something. Something real.

And then came the game. The chaos. The blood. The noise. You were trying to find her through the madness — scanning the field, your heart thudding against your ribs because Hazel wasn’t supposed to be out there. Not in the middle of all that.

And then — you saw her.

Alive. Bruised. Breathing.

You almost cried with relief. Until PJ reached her.

They said something you couldn’t hear. Hazel laughed — that soft, private kind of laugh she usually saved for you — and then PJ kissed her.

It wasn’t just a kiss. It was the kind of kiss people write into coming-of-age scripts and scream about in the bleachers. Dramatic. Triumphant. Like PJ had just won something.

Hazel didn’t pull away.

She didn’t look around to see if you were watching.

And that? That was the part that made your stomach twist.

You felt like your heart was on mute. Like the air had been vacuumed out of the stadium and no one noticed but you. You didn’t move. Couldn’t. Just stood there, watching the person you’d started to build a maybe with become someone else’s victory.

After the game, she found you.

There was dirt on her face and blood drying near her temple, but her eyes were soft when she looked at you.

“Hey,” she said, almost breathless. Like nothing had happened. Like it was just another normal night.

You forced a smile, but your voice cracked. “Did it mean anything?”

She froze.

You hated the way she hesitated. You hated that you’d even had to ask.

“I was scared,” she finally said. “I thought we were gonna die. It was stupid.”

You nodded, but your throat burned. Because it might’ve been stupid. But it wasn’t nothing.

And you realized then — Hazel was good at showing up in quiet ways. But maybe you needed someone who’d shout your name across a field. Who wouldn’t forget you in the moment between fear and relief. Who wouldn’t let someone else write the big, cinematic ending.

Or maybe… maybe Hazel just needed to figure out what she wanted. And maybe you couldn’t be the one waiting while she did.

[Your house, late at night — she knocks.]

You weren’t going to answer.

You heard the knock and stayed still, breathing through your teeth, trying not to cry again. But she knocked again — soft, three taps — and somehow, you already knew it was her.

When you opened the door, Hazel stood there in that hoodie she always “borrowed” from you, sleeves swallowing her hands. Her eyes were red. She looked smaller than usual. Like she was bracing for something.

“I couldn’t sleep,” she whispered.

You didn’t say anything. Just walked back inside and left the door open behind you. She followed.

You stayed standing. She sat.

“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” she said. “The kiss. PJ just—she kissed me. And I didn’t stop it.”