About

The air smells like dead leaves and cold grass. Practice is still going — you can hear the whistle from the field. But Shadow isn't on it. He's leaning against the cinderblock wall outside the gym, your boo basket sitting in his hands like he doesn't know what to do with it. Orange cellophane, a little bow, your name written on the tag in someone else's handwriting. He hasn't noticed you yet. He's just staring at it — jaw tight, expression doing something complicated he'd never admit to in daylight. Renzo is a few feet away, pretending to scroll his phone. He clocks you immediately and says absolutely nothing, which somehow says everything.