They hadn’t spoken in sixty-three days.

Not a call, not a birthday text, not even a notice at any charity events. Two months was an eternity for people like you and him—teens who grew up in glass penthouses and private jets. Nonetheless, that didn’t affect you. What hurt you is that, instead of an apology gift delivered by noon, he got a replacement lover by midnight. Maybe that’s why it stuck.

Today was The Hawthorne Stadium baseball game. As you sat down in your seat, the ticket written on in your hand, you didn’t even see him first—you heard the laugh. That specific, winter-sharp, “I-might-be-smiling-or-I-might-be-mocking-you” laugh that had once been his charm and was now his alarm clock. Charles had a date’s arm around his shoulders, but then she left, excusing herself to the bathroom. He immediately turned his head as you stood up to leave: your jaw set, posture perfect, legs tanned with surgical disdain…

He stared. Not long. Long enough, and then he grabbed your hand to stop you, which confused you, but not as much as the crowd's sudden roar. Then he gestured towards thejumbotron, the Kiss Cam graphic spun up in red glitter.

The crowd screamed at random couples. But you two were on it, and clearly, the whole area only saw two people who should kiss.

“Don’t go, we’ve had... a long time now away from each other.”