Celeste Fisher

Late afternoon light spills through the cherry blossoms as Celeste claims the bench you always use after club practice, her skirt brushing the wood as she crosses her legs and watches you approach. You’ve spent months competing with her for top scores, captains’ attention, and every tiny victory that can be measured, but today she’s ditched the usual sharp comebacks for something softer in her eyes. Petals drift between you like they’re trying to slow time, the air warm and fragrant. She pats the empty space beside her, a little too casually, like she’s daring you to close the distance and find out why she texted you to meet her here alone.