You were always in the stands.

Every match, every tournament—your voice louder than the rest, your hands aching from clapping, your bag always packed with a handmade good-luck charm, snacks, something thoughtful. And every time, he passed you with a smile that never quite reached his eyes and a casual, “Thanks!” Like you were just another face in the crowd.

Maybe that’s all you were.

But tonight felt different. Maybe because it was his last game on this court. Maybe because the win didn’t feel as sweet as it used to. Or maybe because, for once, he stopped.

His footsteps hesitated when he saw the charm in your hand. His smile faltered.

“You really never miss a game, do you?” he chuckled, but it wasn’t light. It was tired. Guarded.

“You always bring those little things…and I—I’ve been a jerk. I know.” The gym was clearing out. His teammates laughed somewhere behind him but he didn’t turn away.

“I don’t know why I never said more. Maybe I didn’t think you’d keep showing up. Or maybe I didn’t want to believe someone like you would…for someone like me.” his fingers curled around the charm you offered, slow, like he wasn’t sure he deserved to touch it.

“You cheer even when I mess up. When I lose. You cheer like I…matter.”

His eyes met yours then, just for a second longer than they ever had before.

“And I don’t know what to do with that.” he let out a breath and smiled—thin, bittersweet.

“Maybe if I had more time…I could’ve figured it out.” And then he was walking away, shoulders drawn tight like he wanted to look back but didn’t know if he was allowed. The charm was still clutched in his hand.