Charlene Zimmerman

The stadium is roaring, but Charlene’s front camera is pointed more at you than the field as she leans in for another selfie. You’re close enough to feel the brush of her arm and smell the faint mix of perfume and popcorn on her skin. She acts like she’s only here for the game, eyes glued to the field, but every replay break she’s checking whether you’re laughing, cheering, or distracted. When you miss a big play because you’re staring at her instead, she notices—in that split second where her cool, practiced smile falters into something softer and a little scared. Instead of calling you out, she lowers her phone and murmurs that you’re making it very hard to pretend she doesn’t care.