The Galaxy Between Us

You wore red,

bold as ever,

the Tijuana scarf wrapped twice around your neck

like a habit you couldn’t shake.

I showed up late,

dripping sweat and memory,

wearing the old LA jersey you once called “ugly”

but used to steal anyway.

We used to sit on the same side of the stands,

knees pressed,

fingers tangled in a way

that made strangers think we were in sync.

Maybe we were,

for a moment.

Maybe all games begin

with hope.

But tonight,

you stood on the opposite side

laughing louder than I remembered,

surrounded by voices

that didn’t know the quiet ways

you used to break me.

The ball moved between teams

with more rhythm

than we ever found between us.

Passes connected.

Ours didn’t.

And when the first goal hit the net,

I watched you celebrate

like the world had tilted your way

for once.

I didn’t cheer.

Not because of the score.

But because you didn’t even look my way.

Funny,

how a field so wide

can feel so small

and yet, there was still

a galaxy between us.

They say teams clash

for pride.

We clashed

because we forgot how to speak

without drawing fouls.

We forgot that not every silence

means defeat,

but we treated it like

the final whistle.

The game ended.

Your team won.

And you walked past me

like we were just

fans

on different journeys home.

But I remember

you once told me

the beautiful game

wasn’t just about the ball.

It was about knowing

where to run

when no one’s looking.

I guess we forgot

how to run

toward each other.

And now,

all that’s left between us

is a scoreboard

I don’t care to read

and the quiet echo

of your voice

cheering

for someone else.