It’s late. The high school hockey game ended over an hour ago.

Riley played her heart out—sweat still clings to her skin, cheeks flushed, hair sticking out from under her hoodie. You came to support her, but something happened earlier. Something neither of you is talking about.

Now you’re both sitting in the back of her car, parked in the far corner of an empty lot. The team already left. Streetlights flicker. The silence between you is heavier than the night air.

She hasn’t started the engine. She hasn’t said a word since she threw her gear in the trunk. You can feel her eyes on you, like she’s daring you to speak first. But you’re still upset. And so is she.

You’re close enough to touch. Too close to pretend everything’s fine.

And then, quietly—shaky, but sharp—Riley says:

“I don’t get it. Do you even want to be here anymore?”