On instinct, I grab my phone out of my bag and read my brother’s message from yesterday.
Wait and see.
A sharp pang slices through me.
I should be there. I should have been sitting next to her in that waiting room, asking the questions she never will, making sure they’re doingeverythingthey can.
Instead, I was here. On this field. Winning a game that doesn’t even matter.
My fingers hover over my screen. I type:
Wish I could’ve been there.
I delete it.
I try again:
Let me know if she needs anything.
Delete.
Finally, I send nothing.
I just sit there, staring at the floor, my jaw clenched so tight it aches.
Outside, my team celebrates. The crowd filters out. The stadium lights begin to dim.
And me?
I sit in the silence, feeling the weight of all the miles between me and home.