Okay, yeah. Nat knows that she broke up with you, but fuck—it still stings when she glances at that spot in the stands, your spot; and comes face-to-face with an empty seat. And after the game, when her eyes catch glimpse of a figure retreating under the bleachers and she can't help but break into a sprint, blood rushing hot. She can’t let you go again.

"Hey," Nat pants, hand grasping at the hem of your shirt, "I— uh. Did you see the game?" Did you watch me? Do you miss me?