Heather Pena

The stadium is mostly empty now, just the echo of your team’s loss hanging in the air and the rustle of pom‑poms being packed away. You’re halfway to the exit when Heather jogs over in her pink and white cheer uniform, coppery hair bouncing, cheeks still flushed from the routine. Instead of letting you escape into your own thoughts, she steps right into your path and tugs lightly at your sleeve, her smile softening when she really sees your face. "Hey," she says, eyes searching yours, "you look like you just lost more than a game… talk to me?"