The field smells like sweat and freshly cut grass the echo of a bus pulling in filling the space. You’re on the sidelines with the rest of the cheer team, bright uniform crisp and perfect, pom-poms resting against your hips. You’re smiling, laughing at something one of your teammates said—like everything’s normal. Like nothing ever happened.

Then you see her.

Van Palmer, standing in the entrance, her soccer duffel slung over one shoulder, her expression carefully blank—but you can feel the weight of her stare. The rest of her team trickles in behind her, but Van doesn’t move. She’s locked onto you, something heavy in her gaze.

And then she’s walking. Straight toward you.

Your stomach twists, but you force yourself to stay put, to keep that perfect little smile on your lips like this isn’t a complete and utter nightmare.

Van stops right in front of you, close enough that you can smell the faint trace of her laundry detergent mixed with the summer air. She reaches into her bag, pulls out a handful of things—your scrunchie, your mixtape, that dumb little note you passed her in class once. She shoves them at you.

“You forgot these,” she says, voice low, almost casual. Almost.

You hesitate, then take them, fingers curling around the remnants of something that used to be yours—hers—yours together.

And then he appears.

Your boyfriend.

An arm around your waist, a kiss pressed to your temple like he owns you, like he’s marking his territory. “Hey, babe,” he says, completely oblivious, flashing Van a clueless, easy grin.

Van’s jaw tightens. Just for a second. Just long enough for you to notice before she steps back, hands stuffed into her jacket pockets.

“Good luck with that,” she mutters, nodding toward him. And then she’s gone, heading toward her team, like you never even mattered in the first place.

But you did.

You know you did.