uncuredturkeybacon

[uncuredturkeybacon]

thank you so much!!!

𝚜𝚒𝚡 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚜 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which love never ends

The sun filtered in through the half-closed blinds of Paige’s dorm room, casting soft strips of light across the hardwood floor. The room was half-packed—open boxes lined the bed, shoes spilling over the edge, books stacked in leaning towers by the door. A half-empty closet loomed in the corner like a reminder of all the time that had passed and how little of it was left.

You stood near her desk, folding up a Wings hoodie that had been sent in the mail last week, her name stitched in bold on the sleeve.

“She really said number one pick,” you teased gently, holding it up like a trophy.

Paige, sitting cross-legged on her bed, looked up at you and grinned. “She really did. Can you believe that?”

“No,” you said, smile twitching at the corner of your mouth. “But I’m proud of her anyway.”

She tilted her head, her smile dimming into something quieter, more thoughtful. “I’m scared.”

You didn’t answer right away. You folded the hoodie neatly and placed it in the open suitcase at the edge of her bed, smoothing it down like it was fragile.

“I know,” you said softly.

“It’s not the game,” she clarified, glancing at you like she needed you to understand. “I’m not scared about basketball. I’m scared of going without you.”

You walked over and sat beside her, one foot tucked under your knee, your shoulder brushing hers.

“I’ll be there,” you said, firm, not flinching.

Paige leaned her head against your shoulder. “Six months feels like a long time.”

“It’s really not.”

“It feels like it.”

You rested your hand on her thigh, fingers curling just slightly into the fabric of her sweats. She was wearing your high school tee—old and oversized, faded from too many washes. You had given it to her years ago when she’d stolen it after a sleepover and never gave it back. You never asked her to.

“You have a whole season to get through,” you said gently. “I have students to teach and finals to grade and middle schoolers to keep from launching glue sticks at each other. It’ll go fast.”

Paige let out a small breath of laughter. “You really want to be a teacher, huh?”

“I already am. I’m a TA now, remember?” you bumped your shoulder against hers. “And I’ve already got my offer letter. Same school district my mom used to work in. Orientation’s the week after graduation.”

She turned toward you, eyes soft and serious. “That’s incredible.”

“You’re incredible,” you said before you could stop yourself.

Paige blinked, looking down like she needed to hide how fast she blushed. She always got like that when you said things too directly. Too honestly.

She didn’t say anything for a moment.

Then, her voice barely above a whisper, “Are you really gonna come to Dallas?”

You turned toward her fully, one leg sliding off the bed to ground yourself. “Yes.”

“You promise?”

You reached for her hand, threading your fingers together. “I promise.”

Her bottom lip quivered just slightly, and she bit down on it like she could swallow the emotion before it broke the surface.

“You’re not just saying that to make it easier.”

“No, Paige. I mean it.” You squeezed her hand. “Six months from now, I’ll be there. I’ll be in your apartment, probably fighting you for closet space and making you pasta after away games.”

She smiled, even as her eyes welled with tears. “You can’t cook.”

“I’m learning. I made that chicken stir fry last week.”

“That was microwaved chicken stir fry.”

“Still counts.”

She laughed through her tears, leaning in to press her forehead to yours. “God, I love you.”

You closed your eyes. “I love you too.”

There were things you didn’t say—like how terrified you were of her leaving, how the thought of waking up alone in your own dorm made your chest ache. How hard it would be to fall asleep without her cold feet pressing against your calves or her late-night whispered rants about practice drills.

But you also didn’t say how proud you were watching her step into this next chapter. You didn’t need to.

Instead, you kissed her—slow, lingering, full of everything you couldn’t fit into words. When you pulled away, her eyes stayed closed like she was memorizing the shape of your mouth.

“You’ll call?” she whispered.

“Every night,” you said. “Even if it’s just to hear you breathe.”

“That’s weird,” she teased.

“That’s love.”

She leaned into your chest, burying her face in your neck, and you held her. You didn’t move for a long time.

When she left for the airport the next morning, her fingers gripped yours until the last possible moment. You kissed her like you were writing a promise into her mouth. Six months, you told her again. You’ll be there in six months.

And as she stepped through the terminal gate, looking back at you with tears in her eyes and her Wings hoodie pulled tight around her, you smiled through your own heartbreak.

Because you meant it.

And because some promises don’t need reminders.

They just need time.

Dallas felt bigger than it looked on a map.

Everything about it—traffic, heat, even the sky—seemed stretched, like someone had pulled the edges of a familiar world just far enough to make it unrecognizable.

Paige sat alone on the living room floor of her new apartment, a half-unpacked box of plates beside her and a phone balanced on her knee. Her wallpaper was still a photo of you— blurry, mid-laugh, sitting cross-legged in the grass at a park. It was from a late spring picnic, right before you both had to pretend you weren’t about to say goodbye.

She stared at the screen like it might blink and bring you back.

You answered after the third ring, your voice a little breathless. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Paige whispered. It came out softer than she meant. Her chest ached.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” you asked.

“No. Just… sitting.”

“On the floor?”

“Yeah. I don’t know where my couch screws went. I might be living a cushion life for a while.”

You laughed—real, warm, familiar. Paige closed her eyes and let it coat the inside of her ribs.

“That’s kind of poetic,” you said. “Starting your WNBA career on the floor of an empty apartment.”

“Feels more pathetic than poetic.”

“No. I like it. It’s humble.”

Paige exhaled, and her voice cracked just slightly. “I miss you.”

The line was quiet for a second. Then you spoke, your voice gentler. “I miss you too.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. “I keep forgetting you’re not ten minutes away. Like today, I had a good practice, and my first thought was ‘I’m gonna stop by your place and tell you everything.’ And then I remembered.”

“I know,” you said. “I do that too.”

“I drove past a coffee shop the other day and almost walked in just to see if you’d be there. Even though you’ve never even been to Texas.”

You smiled, she could hear it. “You’re thinking of the one near Gampel, huh?”

“Yeah.” She swallowed. “The one where you studied and I’d show up pretending I needed help with nutrition class.”

“You did need help.”

“Whatever. It worked.”

She leaned her head back against the wall and looked around at the blank space surrounding her. The moving truck had come and gone. The furniture was in, but the soul of the apartment hadn’t arrived yet.

It was still missing you.

“How’s school?” she asked.

“Chaotic,” you replied. “One of the kids asked me today if people in the ‘old times’ had internet. I said, ‘Define old.’ He said, ‘Like 2005.’”

Paige laughed, shaking her head. “Rude.”

“I’m ancient now,” you said. “Twenty-two and deteriorating.”

“You better still have the strength to carry all your stuff up three flights when you get here.”

“Oh, I do. I’m saving it all up for the move.”

Her smile faltered. “You’re still coming, right?”

You went quiet again. Not hesitant—just letting it settle, weighty and certain.

“Of course I am.”

Paige closed her eyes. “Promise?”

“I already did.”

“I just…” Her voice trailed. “It’s hard. Not hearing your keys in the door. Not getting to see your face at the end of the day. I love my team, I really do—but they’re not you.”

“I’m not replacing anyone,” you said. “Just adding to it.”

She let that sit with her. “I want you here so bad it hurts sometimes.”

“I know,” you whispered. “Me too.”

Her voice shook. “I don’t want us to change.”

“We won’t.”

“But long distance changes people.”

“Maybe,” you admitted. “But not us. It might make things harder. But not worse.”

She nodded, even though you couldn’t see it. “I just feel like I’m floating through all this without you. The practices, the press, the apartment—it all feels… half real.”

“Paige,” you said, gentle, firm. “I am coming. I’m not drifting away from you. I’m just walking the longer path to the same place.”

She let the silence wrap around her.

“Say something else,” she said softly. “Just talk to me.”

You paused. “Okay… I hung up pictures in my room. There’s one of us from last spring. You’ve got your mouth full of apple slices and you’re giving me the middle finger because I said you looked like a squirrel.”

She laughed. “I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

Paige smiled, small but genuine. She pictured it. You, in your tiny off-campus apartment. Talking about her like she was still part of your day. She was. You were hers, too.

“I love you,” Paige said.

“I love you more,” you answered.

The days ticked by slower than she liked.

Some nights, she fell asleep with the phone still in her hand, your voice still echoing in her ears from a half-finished conversation. Other nights, she'd stay up scrolling through old pictures, rereading texts, listening to voicemails.

Her teammates teased her about being a hopeless romantic. About how she smiled every time your name came up. About how she always checked her phone like she was waiting for someone to come home.

And she was.

Because in six months—five, now—you would.

And when that day came, Paige knew, no amount of missed calls or empty beds would matter. Because you’d be there. You’d walk through the door with a duffel bag and a tired smile, and she'd finally feel whole again.

But until then… she’d wait.

With her phone in her hand. And your promise in her heart.

The calendar on Paige’s fridge had six weeks circled in red.

It was stupid, maybe, using a physical calendar like some suburban mom—but it grounded her. It gave shape to time that otherwise felt endless. Each “X” she scribbled through a square made the space between now and your arrival just a little smaller.

But it didn’t make the missing hurt any less.

Paige sat curled on the apartment couch, legs tucked under her, bowl of cereal in one hand, phone pressed to her cheek with the other. Her hair was still damp from practice. Her whole body ached—but nothing ached more than the space beside her on the couch.

“I got a voicemail from one of my students today,” your voice said through the speaker. “He said, ‘Miss Y/L/N, I hope you feel better because math was boring without you.’ And then he just hung up. No goodbye. Just vibes.”

Paige chuckled, staring out the window at the pink glow bleeding across the Dallas sky. “You’re their favorite.”

“They’re my favorites too. Even when they call me 'mom' by accident and pretend like it didn’t happen.”

“You do have teacher-mom energy.”

“Oh, shut up,” you said with a laugh. “You miss my teacher-mom energy.”

“Painfully.”

A beat of silence.

“I’m looking at your sweatshirt right now,” you said after a moment. “You left it in my car before you moved. I wore it to bed last night.”

That pulled a breath from Paige she didn’t know she was holding. “Did it still smell like me?”

“It did. Faintly. Like that vanilla lotion you always forget to pack on road trips.”

She smiled. “I haven’t used it since I left.”

“Save it for me?”

“Always.”

She shifted, curling tighter into herself. “Today was hard.”

“Tell me.”

“Team media stuff,” Paige mumbled. “Photos, press questions, PR meetings. They asked about goals. Stats. Leadership. Playmaking. All I could think was, none of that matters until you’re here.”

You were quiet for a moment. “I don’t want to be the reason you’re not present here, Paige.”

“You’re not. You’re the reason I am.” She pressed the heel of her hand into her eye, blinking fast. “I show up every day because I know you’ll be here soon. It’s the only thing keeping me steady.”

You exhaled softly on the other end of the line.

“I’m coming. You know that.”

“I know.”

“But you need to live this part too, babe. Not just wait for me to catch up.”

Paige looked down at the rug. Her socked toe circled the same loop in the fabric she always traced when she was anxious.

“I’m trying,” she whispered.

“I know you are,” you said, gentle and true.

She listened to your breathing—steady, familiar, comforting like a lullaby only she ever got to hear.

“I got your letter,” you said after a pause.

Her breath caught. “You did?”

“It was in my mailbox when I got home today. I read it twice. I cried.”

“Yeah?” Her throat tightened. “I wasn’t sure if I should send it.”

“I’m glad you did.” You paused. “The part where you said you wake up sometimes expecting me to be next to you… that broke me.”

“It breaks me too,” she admitted.

You went quiet, and for a second she thought maybe the call had dropped. But then you spoke, voice lower than before.

“I still sleep on my side of the bed.”

Paige’s eyes burned. “Me too.”

More silence. Not awkward—just full. Weighted. Safe.

“I’ve been drafting lesson plans on weekends,” you said eventually. “Every time I write one, I imagine grading papers at your kitchen table. Coffee beside me. You half-asleep, stealing bites of my breakfast.”

“I want that so bad,” Paige whispered. “Just… life with you.”

“You’ll have it.”

“I’m scared something’s gonna change before then.”

You were quiet. “Do you feel me changing?”

“No,” she answered immediately. “No. I feel you more than ever.”

“Then trust that.”

She let her head fall back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut. “I trust you.”

“Good,” you whispered. “Because I’m not going anywhere. Even if it feels like I’m not close yet—I am. I’m getting closer every single day.”

Paige exhaled shakily. “I need you.”

“You have me.”

It was the kind of sentence Paige wanted to wrap herself in. Warm. Safe. Whole.

“I love you,” she said.

“I love you more,” you replied. “Thirty-nine days.”

She smiled.

Thirty-nine days.

She could wait a little longer.

Paige had never looked at a calendar so obsessively in her life.

Thirteen days.

She’d circled the date in three different colors now. Red, then black, then silver Sharpie because it felt permanent. Final. Like a promise.

Thirteen days until you arrived in Dallas. Thirteen days until she wouldn’t have to fall asleep hugging a pillow that didn’t breathe. Until she wouldn’t have to whisper “I love you” to a lock screen photo anymore.

Her teammates noticed.

“You good, Bueckers?” Arike asked at practice after she botched a layup drill for the third time.

“Yeah. Just… distracted.”

DiJonai raised a brow. “Your girl coming soon?”

Paige glanced down at the court, tried to hide her smile. “Thirteen days.”

Arike let out a low whistle. “We’re about to meet the mysterious teacher girlfriend.”

“She’s real?” Maddy Siegrist joked from the sideline. “I thought y’all made her up for the plot.”

“Shut up,” Paige muttered, but she was grinning.

That night, her phone buzzed with a picture.

You. In the mirror. Hair still damp from a shower, her oversized Wings hoodie falling off one shoulder. The caption underneath said, “Borrowed this. Sorry, not sorry.”

Paige melted into her mattress.

“That’s the only crime I fully endorse.”

Then she FaceTimed you.

You answered almost immediately, face bright despite the bags under your eyes. “Hey, superstar.”

“Hey, thief.”

You smiled. “Caught me.”

“You look good in that.”

“I better. You left it behind for a reason.”

“I did,” Paige said softly. “So you’d have something to hold until I could do it myself again.”

Your face shifted, tenderness blooming at the edges of your eyes. “Two weeks.”

“Twelve days.”

You sighed, smiling into the phone like she’d pressed a kiss to your cheek through the screen. “I packed up my classroom today. Left a note on the desk for the next TA.”

Paige nodded. “It’s real now, huh?”

“It’s always been real,” you said. “But now it’s here. It’s close.”

Paige ran a hand through her hair, breath shaky. “I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“That something will go wrong. That the plane will get canceled. Or your offer will fall through. Or you’ll—”

“I’m coming,” you interrupted, firm, grounding her. “There’s no ‘what if.’ I’m coming. Eleven days and twenty hours. I counted.”

Paige stared at you for a long second.

“Come sleep on the call,” she said quietly.

You blinked. “You want me to fall asleep with you on the phone?”

“I want to hear you breathe,” she whispered. “I want to pretend the distance isn’t real for one night.”

You didn’t hesitate. “Okay.”

She propped her phone up on the pillow beside her. You did the same. It wasn’t perfect—fuzzy audio, a time delay—but it was yours. You talked about nothing for a while. What you made for dinner (pasta), the paper you were editing (some kid plagiarized a poem about dogs), your grocery list for when you moved in (cereal, way too much oat milk, frozen dumplings).

And then it got quiet.

Your voice came soft in the dark, “Ten days tomorrow.”

“I know,” Paige murmured. “It’s starting to feel real.”

“It is real.”

She reached for the screen, like touching glass could bridge miles. “I can’t wait to kiss you again.”

You let out a breath. “Don’t make me cry this late.”

“I just miss you,” Paige said, voice cracking.

“I know, baby. I miss you too.”

Seven days before you arrive, a package showed up at her door with your name scribbled across the top.

Inside was a box of school supplies—pens, Post-its, paper clips—and a hand-written note.

“Figured I should bring some of me to you before I physically can. Can’t wait to leave these all over your kitchen table. Love you always, Your favorite teacher.”

She cried for fifteen minutes after opening it

Four days before, she sat at a team dinner scrolling through your texts, tuning out everything else.

Her phone buzzed.

“T-minus 96 hours. Pack extra chapstick. You’re not escaping all the kisses I owe you.”

She nearly choked on her lemonade.

She didn’t sleep.

She lay on the couch in your sweatshirt, staring at the ceiling, heart galloping in her chest like she was waiting for Christmas morning.

The phone rang at 1:08 AM.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked.

“Nope.”

“Me neither.”

You were quiet together for a while. Then Paige whispered, “Where are you?”

You laughed. “Still in Connecticut. Bags packed. Suitcase by the door. I keep checking my flight time every ten minutes.”

“Me too,” she said. “I keep opening the guest closet to make sure I left you enough space.”

“You didn’t.”

“Guess we’ll be sharing hangers then.” A pause. “Next time I call you,” you said, “it won’t be through a screen.”

Paige closed her eyes. “I’m gonna hold you so tight.”

“I’m gonna let you.”

Two days before.

The sun in Dallas was blinding. Unreasonably bright for a city that had no idea her world was about to tilt.

Paige had just gotten home from practice, keys still in hand, backpack sliding off her shoulder when she grabbed her phone.

One new message from you.

“On the way to my last class now—remind me to tell you about the 8th grader who tried to give me a friendship bracelet today. He said it was for luck on my big move .”

She smiled. She sat on the arm of the couch and typed fast.

“That’s the cutest thing ever.”

Delivered.

No read receipt. That was fine. You were still in class.

An hour passed.

She sent another.

“Dinner’s on me when you land. I bought dumplings. Don’t fight me.”

No response.

She waited.

She called around 9 p.m.

Once. Twice.

Three rings, voicemail.

She left a message.

“Hey, you okay? I know you’ve probably got a million things going on—boxes, checklists, last-minute goodbyes—but… just call me when you get a second, okay? I just want to hear your voice.”

She kept her phone next to her pillow that night, volume up, screen brightness high.

Nothing.

One day before.

The silence clung to her.

She woke with a headache, heart already racing, the cold side of the bed feeling like an accusation.

Still nothing from you.

Paige rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling.

“This is fine,” she whispered to herself. “You’re just busy. You’re probably with your family. Maybe your phone died.”

She called again.

Straight to voicemail.

She texted.

“I’m starting to worry. Just… send me a thumbs up or anything. Please.”

Nothing.

She paced the apartment, uneaten toast still on her plate, coffee gone cold in her mug.

That night, she sat on the kitchen floor in front of the fridge, phone in her lap, eyes red.

“Where are you?” “Baby, please.” “Just tell me you're okay.” “I don’t care if you’re not getting on the plane. I just need to know you're okay.”

She didn’t sleep.

Just stared at the wall.

The day of.

She cleaned the apartment top to bottom.

She couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t cry again.

You were supposed to land at 4:27 p.m.

She stared at the time on her screen—4:00… 4:15… 4:27… 4:40.

No call. No knock at the door. No text.

She scrolled to the airport’s arrival board online. Typed your flight number. Watched it switch from Scheduled to Landed.

Still nothing.

She picked up her phone again. Shaking fingers. Dialed.

Voicemail.

She left one anyway, voice cracking.

“Please don’t do this to me. Please. Just… I need you. I need to know if you’re—if you’re safe. If you changed your mind, I’ll understand. I swear, I’ll understand. Just don’t let it end like this. Not in silence.”

She hung up.

Then slumped down against the front door and broke.

Her body folded over itself. Sobs racked through her like her heart had forgotten how to beat without yours to match it. She stayed there, curled up, whispering your name like a prayer.

She didn’t turn the lights on.

She sat in the dark with your hoodie balled up in her arms and her phone still in her hand.

Her last text read, “I’ll wait by the door.”

But she never heard the knock.

Paige sat on the apartment floor again, back pressed against the kitchen cabinets. The tile was cold beneath her legs. She hadn’t eaten more than toast in 36 hours.

The dumplings were still in the freezer. She hadn’t touched them. Couldn’t.

She refreshed her texts.

Still no read receipts. Still no dots. Still no “Delivered” beneath her messages.

She called again.

Straight to voicemail.

She whispered into the silence like maybe this time the void would answer her.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” she said. “I don’t know if you’re ghosting me or if you’re gone. Please—please—just give me something. Let me hate you. Let me worry. Just don’t let me do both.”

She hung up. Laid down. Didn’t move.

She went to practice. No one said anything until the third missed shot in a row.

“Yo,” Arike called out. “You good, Paige?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just wiped sweat from her brow and threw the ball at the nearest rack.

“Fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I said I’m fine,” Paige snapped, sharper than she meant to. Her voice echoed off the gym walls like a slap.

Her teammates exchanged looks.

“Alright,” Nai said as they walked out of the locker room. “Spill. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Try again.”

Paige exhaled, shoulders slumped. “She was supposed to be here. Three days ago.”

Nai paused. “Wait—your girl? She didn’t come?”

“No call. No text. No voicemail. Nothing.”

Nai’s face softened. “Shit, Paige…”

“I don’t even know if she’s alive.”

“Have you… talked to anyone? Like, her friends, her mom—?”

“She’s private about that. Her family… it’s complicated.”

Nai hesitated. “Did she ever give any signs that she wouldn’t come?”

“No.” Paige blinked hard. “She was excited. We planned everything down to the shelf space. She sent me a letter. She told me she was counting hours. And now it’s just—gone.”

Nai put a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll figure it out.”

Paige flinched. “What if there’s nothing to figure out?”

Nai didn’t answer that.

The team had an off day.

Paige didn’t leave bed.

She watched your old videos on her phone—the ones you sent her when you used to stay up late decorating your classroom or making grilled cheese while dancing around your kitchen.

She watched them on loop until her phone died.

And then she just laid there, eyes burning.

Maddy brought takeout over.

“You need to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I didn’t ask.”

They sat in silence on the couch. Paige pushed rice around her plate without lifting the fork once.

Maddy glanced at her. “Is there any chance she—like, she couldn’t call?”

Paige’s voice cracked. “I don’t know. I’ve thought of everything. Every possibility. Car accident. No service. Anxiety. Cold feet. But it’s been over a week.”

“Have you heard anything?”

Paige shook her head. “Her phone goes straight to voicemail. Her email bounced. Her socials are dark. It’s like she fell off the planet.”

“Bueckers…”

“I keep checking the door,” Paige whispered. “I know she’s not coming, but I can’t help it. I still wake up thinking I’ll hear her keys.”

Maddy’s voice went soft. “You really loved her, huh?”

Paige nodded, eyes shining. “Still do.”

The media started noticing.

Her stats dropped. Her answers got shorter. Smiles didn’t reach her eyes.

In a post-practice interview, someone asked, “Everything okay off the court?”

She blinked, stunned into stillness.

Then nodded once.

But when she got back to the locker room, she cried into her jersey until her shoulders shook and her breath hitched and she didn’t know how to stop.

She texted you again.

“It’s been almost two weeks. Please. I’m not mad. I just need to know if you’re okay. I won’t ask anything else. Just… say something. Anything.”

She stared at the screen for hours.

Nothing.

She scrolled through every old message. Every photo. Every “I love you more.” Every kiss emoji. Every half-finished voice memo you never sent but saved for later.

She played one on loop.

“God, I can’t wait to be there. To be home. With you.”

And then, when her hands couldn’t stop shaking, she recorded one of her own. She didn’t know if it would ever be heard. But she sent it anyway.

“Hey. It’s Paige. I guess this is… my last message. I don’t know if you’re out there, or if you changed your mind, or if something happened and you’re too scared to tell me. But I still love you. And I always will. No matter what.”

She hit send.

And this time, she didn’t wait for the three dots to appear.

There was a new voicemail on Paige’s phone.

Not from you.

Just a spam number, something about her car warranty.

She deleted it without listening.

Your name—your entire thread—was now buried in her messages. She hadn’t opened it in four days. Not because she didn’t care. Because she couldn’t.

Every time she saw it, her stomach clenched. Not from love. From loss.

You had disappeared 25 days ago.

She used to count the days with hope. Now it just felt like proof that people vanish. Even the ones who swore they’d never leave.

Her texts to you had slowed. At first they’d been frantic—ten a day, calls at every hour. Then five a day. Then one. Then every few days.

Now? Nothing in almost a week.

She didn’t even cry anymore.

She just… lived.

Empty. Quiet. Going through the motions.

Practice was quiet. No jokes. No trash talk. Just the dull thud of the ball against hardwood and the squeak of sneakers she barely registered anymore.

Her shooting percentage had dropped 8%.

The coaching staff hadn’t said anything yet, but she could feel it. The stares. The sighs. The weight of eyes tracking her when they thought she wasn’t looking.

After practice, she sat on the locker room bench for ten minutes too long, staring at the wall like it might say something. Like you used to.

She pulled out her phone.

No new messages. No calls.

She scrolled to your contact anyway. Just to see it. Just to remind herself that once, there was a world where your name lit up her screen like sunlight.

She closed the app.

Went home.

Didn’t even shower.

Her phone rang.

She was mid-laundry, a damp towel slung over one arm, the apartment humid from the dryer running too long.

She didn’t check it immediately. Assumed it was Nai or maybe Coach.

It rang again.

She glanced over.

Paused.

Your name.

Your contact photo—the one she took on a lazy spring day, you in her hoodie, your cheeks pink from sun and laughter.

She froze. The call kept ringing. Her thumb hovered. She didn’t move. She just watched it ring. Watched it buzz against the counter like it hadn’t been silent for a month.

Then she let it stop. Didn’t touch it. Didn’t breathe. The screen went dark. She stood still for a long time. It rang again. Same name. Same photo. Same ringtone she hadn’t changed since the day you set it for yourself.

But this time, something cracked in her chest—not a sob, not panic. Just anger. Cold, bitter, exhausted anger.

You didn’t get to vanish for four weeks and come back like nothing happened. You didn’t get to disappear and then dial her number like it was safe to do so. You didn’t get to decide when she hurt. She watched it ring again. Didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

She whispered into the silence, voice flat, “You don’t get to do this to me.”

Then the call ended. And the phone was quiet again. And she sat down on the kitchen floor like she had the first night you didn’t show up. But this time, she didn’t cry. This time, she just turned the phone over, face down.

Let the silence reclaim the room.

The lights at Target Center always made Paige feel electric.

It was different being back here—being home. But nothing about tonight felt comforting.

She was sharp in warmups. Crisp. Clean. Cold. Her jumper was falling like clockwork. Her footwork flawless. Her body obeyed in a way her heart hadn’t for weeks.

She was pissed.

And she was going to take it out on the court.

Fans were already filling in as she paced the baseline, headphones slung around her neck, eyes unfocused as she dribbled through sets.

And then—she saw her.

Your mom.

Sitting alone. Courtside. Seat 3A. The one you said was your favorite seat cause you could watch her without getting blocked by other people.

She was smaller than Paige remembered. Or maybe just older. Her coat was folded neatly in her lap, hands clutching it like it could keep her together.

Paige’s heart stuttered.

She looked away.

Kept warming up.

Refused to let herself feel anything.

Not now. Not after four weeks of unanswered calls. Not after those two rings she let pass without lifting a finger.

She buried the sight of her behind a wall of rage. Let her heartbeat sync with the squeak of shoes, the thud of the ball, the echo of her name being announced with fire in the intro video.

And when the game started?

She was unreal.

Floaters. Crossovers. Mid-range pull-ups that never touched the rim.

By halftime, she had 18 points and 5 assists.

By the end of the third quarter, 27 points, 3 steals, and the crowd was roaring every time she touched the ball.

She didn’t crack. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

Not until the final buzzer sounded.

Not until she saw your mom again.

Still there. Still alone.

Waiting.

She pulled her warmup jacket on and started walking toward the tunnel, jaw tight, jaw locked.

“Paige.” She didn’t stop. “Paige, please.”

No.

No.

She kept walking. One foot in front of the other.

“She didn’t break her promise to you.”

That made her pause.

Your mom’s voice cracked through the noise like a crack in glass.

“She didn’t leave you.”

Paige’s breath caught.

She turned—slow, deliberate.

Your mom was standing now, gripping the railing, eyes already shining with tears.

“She was coming to you,” she whispered. “She never stopped loving you.”

“What did you just say?” Paige’s voice was a whisper.

The older woman’s lips trembled. “Can we… Can we talk somewhere else?”

Paige didn’t respond.

Just reached for her, fingers numb, and pulled her through the tunnel, past a stunned PR intern, down the hallway.

Into the locker room.

Empty.

Silent.

She shut the door behind them. Locked it.

Turned around.

“Say it again,” she said. Not a request. A plea.

Your mother stared at her, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. Her voice was barely there.

“She was on her way to Dallas,” she said. “She left two days early. Wanted to surprise you.”

Paige didn’t move.

“She was so excited. She couldn’t stop smiling. Said she wanted to be there when you got home from practice, said she couldn’t wait another day. She didn’t even tell me. I found the note on the kitchen table.”

Paige’s knees buckled.

She caught herself on the edge of a bench. “No,” she whispered.

“She got in the car that morning. Early. She never made it to the airport.”

Her heart stopped.

“She was hit by a semi on I-95. Fog was thick. The driver didn’t see her. She died on impact.”

Paige didn’t breathe. Couldn’t.

Your mother’s eyes filled again. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t know—how to reach you. I didn’t have your number, not anymore. I tried social media, but…”

“You didn’t call the team?” Paige’s voice was raw.

“I tried, but they didn’t believe me.”

Paige’s hands were shaking.

Your mother took a slow step forward. “She had gifts in the car. Her famous dumplings. Your favorite lotion. And a sweatshirt she swore would make you cry. She had this whole plan. She wanted to sneak in and wait on your couch.”

Paige let out a broken laugh. “That sounds like her.”

“She loved you so much.”

“I know,” Paige whispered, the first tear falling. “I know.”

And then she couldn’t stop them.

They came all at once—weeks of confusion, silence, fury, grief—crashing over her like a wave she never saw coming.

She sobbed into her hands, whole body trembling.

“She said she was coming,” Paige cried. “I waited. I waited so long.”

Your mother stepped forward, slowly, and sat beside her. She didn’t speak. Just reached for Paige’s hand.

It was cold. Small. Familiar.

“She tried,” she said.

That was all.

And it was everything.

That night, Paige didn’t go out with the team. Didn’t talk to media. Didn’t even turn on the lights when she got back to her hotel room.

She laid in bed, clutching her phone.

Opened your last message—the one with the bracelet story.

She read it over and over until her eyes blurred.

Then she opened her voicemails. The one you never got to hear.

She hit play.

And for the first time, she let herself believe you heard it after all.

The rest of the Wings flew back to Dallas the next morning.

Paige didn’t.

She sent a text to her coach. “I need a few more days. I’ll explain when I can.” She didn’t get a reply, just three dots. “Take your time. We’ve got you.”

Your mother offered her the guest room without hesitation.

But Paige couldn’t sleep.

She sat in your driveway for almost half an hour before walking inside, her duffel bag untouched in the trunk. The porch creaked the same way it had in high school. The air smelled like cinnamon and old books. The light in the hallway still flickered if you walked too fast.

The house felt like it had been paused mid-laugh.

Your mother gave her a quiet smile. “You can go up if you want.”

Paige hesitated at the stairs.

“I haven’t changed a thing,” she added.

Paige nodded.

And climbed.

Each step was an echo.

Your bedroom door was half-closed.

She pushed it open slowly, like the room might wake up.

It looked exactly the same.

The posters. The scuffed desk. The stack of books under your windowsill. The UConn flag pinned above your bed from the day you got your acceptance letter.

It felt like walking into a snow globe—perfectly preserved, terrifyingly still.

Her legs moved without permission. She stood in the center of the room, eyes darting from corner to corner.

There was the dent in the wall where you’d knocked your chair back too far trying to recreate a TikTok dance.

There was the blanket she gave you senior year—navy blue, your name and hers stitched into the corner like some inside joke you never explained to anyone else.

There was your old lanyard, still hanging from the doorknob.

And then her eyes landed on it.

The photo frame on your nightstand.

It was them.

Her and you.

From sophomore year.

Both in hoodies, half-asleep on your porch swing. She was leaning into you, your arm around her, eyes closed. You were laughing—head tilted, light spilling from you like a secret the world didn’t deserve.

She staggered forward.

Knees hit the side of the bed.

She picked up the frame with trembling hands. Traced your face with her thumb. Pressed it to her chest like it was the only part of you left.

That’s when it broke.

All of it.

The strength. The waiting. The hope. The disbelief.

She collapsed onto your bed in sobs that felt like thunder.

Big, gasping, shoulder-racking sobs.

“Why,” she cried into your pillow, voice muffled, raw. “Why didn’t I pick you up myself? Why didn’t I call more? Send someone? Why wasn’t I there?”

The pillow soaked beneath her. Your scent still faint.

She curled into it like it could answer her.

“God, you were right there. You were coming to me—early. And I didn’t—I didn’t even get to see you.”

The photo dropped from her hand and landed face-up beside her.

Her tears made the glass shimmer.

She pressed her cheek to it.

“Come back,” she whispered. “Please, baby. I don’t know how to live without you.”

She stayed there for what felt like hours.

Maybe it was.

No one came to check. Your mother didn’t knock. She must’ve known—must’ve felt it.

Paige eventually sat up, wiped her eyes on your sweatshirt still folded at the foot of your bed.

Her voice was wrecked when she finally whispered, “I never stopped waiting for you.”

And maybe she never would.

The cemetery was quiet.

The kind of quiet that made you feel like time had paused just long enough for the earth to breathe.

It was a cool, overcast morning—no sun, no shadows. Just that still, aching gray that matched the way Paige’s heart had felt since the moment she heard the words "she was on her way to surprise you."

Your mother had told her where to go.

Plot 47. Near the far oak. The one that turns red the first in fall.

The walk from the parking lot was long.

Paige carried a bouquet in one hand—sunflowers and dahlias, wrapped in twine. You always said they looked like fireworks made out of joy. She never forgot that.

Her other hand stayed tucked in her jacket pocket, fingers curled tight like she might fall apart if she let them open.

When she reached your grave, she just stood.

Still.

Frozen.

Your name was etched in marble now. Sharp, clean lettering. Birth year. Dash. End year.

Too soon. So unfairly soon.

Beneath it, a line she recognized.

She loved loudly. She laughed often. She never said goodbye without meaning it.

Paige bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.

She knelt slowly. Placed the flowers at the base. Adjusted them twice, even though they were already perfect.

And then she sat.

Cross-legged on the grass.

Facing you.

“I thought I’d have more time,” she said quietly.

The breeze stirred the petals.

“I thought you’d walk into my apartment two days early and I’d laugh and tell you you were crazy for not telling me. I thought we’d fight about cabinet space. I thought I’d kiss you every night for the rest of my life.”

She swallowed hard.

“But instead… I’m sitting here. And this is the first time I’ve seen your name in stone.”

A pause.

“I was angry. Your mom called me after a month of silence and I was angry. I didn’t know you were on your way to me. I didn’t know you never made it.”

She looked down, hands clenched in her lap.

“I thought you left me.”

Her breath trembled.

“I didn’t know you were trying to come home.”

She looked up at the sky.

“I would’ve waited at the airport all day if I had known. I would’ve driven to Minnesota and brought you myself. I would’ve done anything, anything, to see you one more time.”

Her jaw tensed. Eyes shined with fresh tears.

“I still talk to you. Every night. I sleep in your hoodie. I make coffee and pour two mugs like an idiot.”

She wiped her face with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

“The team doesn’t ask anymore. I think they’re scared of breaking me. But I’ve already been broken.”

She took a breath.

“But I’m still here.”

The wind picked up. Rustled the oak leaves above.

“I went back to your bedroom,” Paige said. “It looked exactly the same. Like you were just at school and would be home by dinner.”

She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a small laminated photo—the same one that had sat on your nightstand. The one of the two of you from sophomore year. She laid it gently between the flowers and the stone.

“I wanted to leave this with you,” she said. “Because even if I have to move forward, I’m not leaving you. You’re still the best part of me.”

A gust of wind blew through the grass. Paige looked down.

Her voice dropped, barely audible.

“I love you,” she whispered. “And I always will.”

She sat there for a long time.

Telling you about her next game. About the dumplings she finally cooked. About the song that made her think of you last week and how she cried in the car on the way to practice.

She stayed until the sun started peeking out again. Until the clouds began to thin and the shadows returned.

Then she stood. Pressed two fingers to her lips. Then to your name.

And walked away.

The flowers swayed in the breeze behind her.

The picture stayed.

You stayed.

The cheers were deafening.

It was the second round of the playoffs. Dallas had clawed their way in, and now they were clawing their way forward. The whole arena stood as Paige walked toward center court, Rookie of the Year graphic blazing behind her.

Bright lights. Brighter smile.

But behind that smile, a tremor.

She hadn’t slept much the night before. Not because of nerves. But because the one person she wanted to share this with wasn’t there.

Would never be there again.

She stepped forward, hands steady despite the storm inside her. Her name echoed from the speakers. “2025 WNBA Rookie of the Year… Paige Bueckers!”

Applause.

Spotlights.

Cameras flashing.

A league rep handed her the trophy—sleek, metallic, engraved. Her fingers curled around it automatically. Like she was on autopilot.

She turned to the mic.

The crowd quieted.

Her voice started strong.

“Um… wow. This means the world. First of all, thank you to the league, my teammates, my coaches. The Dallas Wings believed in me the second they drafted me, and I hope I’ve made them proud.”

More cheers.

She smiled faintly.

“I want to thank my family. My friends. The fans. And my hometown—Hopkins, I love you.”

More applause.

Then a pause.

She glanced down at the trophy in her hand. Her fingers tightened.

Her voice softened.

“But… there’s someone else I need to thank.”

The arena stilled.

Paige’s throat bobbed.

“She… she should’ve been here. And she almost was.”

The crowd hushed.

Paige blinked up at the rafters like she was asking for strength from a sky that still felt too far away.

“She was the first person who told me I was going to make it here. She saw this moment before I did. She believed in me when I was tired. She reminded me why I loved this game when I couldn’t feel it.”

She looked directly into the camera.

“Thank you for loving me. For believing in me. For being the kindest, brightest part of my life. This award… I share it with you. I dedicate it to you.”

A single tear slid down her cheek.

“You didn’t make it to the game. But you made me. Every piece of me. So I carry you every time I step on this court.”

The crowd began clapping—slow, quiet. Then stronger. Louder.

Rising like a wave.

Paige stepped back from the mic.

She raised the trophy once. Small, solemn.

And whispered, not into the microphone, but just to the air.

“I hope you’re proud of me.”

The cemetery was quiet again.

Autumn had arrived. The oak tree beside your grave had started to turn—flaming reds and soft oranges bleeding down through the branches like a slow goodbye.

Paige walked the familiar path in silence.

No cameras. No team. No PR handlers. No trophy case.

Just her.

And the small velvet-lined box tucked under her arm.

She wore your hoodie. It still smelled faintly like your shampoo. It was a little too worn now, the cuffs fraying. But it was hers. And it had been yours. And that made it holy.

When she reached your grave, she knelt.

The headstone hadn’t changed. Still your name. Still that cruel little dash between two years that weren’t enough. Still that line.

She never said goodbye without meaning it.

Paige set the box down beside the sunflowers and dahlias she’d brought. The same flowers she always did.

She didn’t open the box right away.

Just stared at your name. Let the wind brush over her face. Let the silence wrap around her like a question with no answer.

“I said I’d bring it to you,” she whispered eventually.

Her fingers found the edges of the velvet. She lifted the lid.

Inside was her Rookie of the Year trophy—well, a replica. The league had sent a second version when they needed to display the original. She didn’t correct them. She was glad for it.

Because this one was for you.

She picked it up gently. Placed it against the stone.

“This was yours before it was mine,” she said. “You trained me in the off-seasons. You studied game tape with me. You kept me grounded when I got caught in my own head.”

She exhaled. It sounded like surrender.

“I know I said the words in my speech. But I needed to say them here.”

A leaf drifted down between them.

She smiled faintly.

“I miss you every day. I talk to you before every game. I look for your face in every crowd. I still text you sometimes. Even though I know the only place I can send anything now… is here.”

She touched the trophy. Then the top edge of your headstone.

“I hope wherever you are, you’re still loud. Still laughing. Still correcting my form from the sidelines and making fun of how dramatic I get during interviews.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away.

“I won, baby,” she whispered. “And it should’ve been us holding this together.”

Her voice dropped to something barely audible.

“But I’m still holding it for both of us.”

She leaned forward. Pressed a kiss to the marble.

And then sat beside your grave. Not in mourning.

But in memory.

She stayed until the sky turned pink behind the trees.

Then stood.

One last look at the trophy. At the stone. At the name she loved more than her own.

“I’ll be back,” she said. “That’s a promise.”

And when she walked away, the wind rustled the leaves—gentle, soft, as if the trees themselves whispered back.

I know.

[uncuredturkeybacon]

it will be cutesy

hey so i think we deserve a cute little fic after what you just put us through

i will always post a fluff fic after an angst one

[uncuredturkeybacon]

don’t gaslight her

i’m very bored in the airport, and my flight is delayed, so send some asks or say hi in my dms!

[uncuredturkeybacon]

still undefeated at mohegan!!

[uncuredturkeybacon]

this was cute

[uncuredturkeybacon]

hey so i think we deserve a cute little fic after what you just put us through

i will always post a fluff fic after an angst one

[uncuredturkeybacon]

Do you have a toxic relationship with happy endings oh my god 😭

yes this one

[uncuredturkeybacon]

i am only a tiny bit apologetic

𝚜𝚒𝚡 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚜 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which love never ends

The sun filtered in through the half-closed blinds of Paige’s dorm room, casting soft strips of light across the hardwood floor. The room was half-packed—open boxes lined the bed, shoes spilling over the edge, books stacked in leaning towers by the door. A half-empty closet loomed in the corner like a reminder of all the time that had passed and how little of it was left.

You stood near her desk, folding up a Wings hoodie that had been sent in the mail last week, her name stitched in bold on the sleeve.

“She really said number one pick,” you teased gently, holding it up like a trophy.

Paige, sitting cross-legged on her bed, looked up at you and grinned. “She really did. Can you believe that?”

“No,” you said, smile twitching at the corner of your mouth. “But I’m proud of her anyway.”

She tilted her head, her smile dimming into something quieter, more thoughtful. “I’m scared.”

You didn’t answer right away. You folded the hoodie neatly and placed it in the open suitcase at the edge of her bed, smoothing it down like it was fragile.

“I know,” you said softly.

“It’s not the game,” she clarified, glancing at you like she needed you to understand. “I’m not scared about basketball. I’m scared of going without you.”

You walked over and sat beside her, one foot tucked under your knee, your shoulder brushing hers.

“I’ll be there,” you said, firm, not flinching.

Paige leaned her head against your shoulder. “Six months feels like a long time.”

“It’s really not.”

“It feels like it.”

You rested your hand on her thigh, fingers curling just slightly into the fabric of her sweats. She was wearing your high school tee—old and oversized, faded from too many washes. You had given it to her years ago when she’d stolen it after a sleepover and never gave it back. You never asked her to.

“You have a whole season to get through,” you said gently. “I have students to teach and finals to grade and middle schoolers to keep from launching glue sticks at each other. It’ll go fast.”

Paige let out a small breath of laughter. “You really want to be a teacher, huh?”

“I already am. I’m a TA now, remember?” you bumped your shoulder against hers. “And I’ve already got my offer letter. Same school district my mom used to work in. Orientation’s the week after graduation.”

She turned toward you, eyes soft and serious. “That’s incredible.”

“You’re incredible,” you said before you could stop yourself.

Paige blinked, looking down like she needed to hide how fast she blushed. She always got like that when you said things too directly. Too honestly.

She didn’t say anything for a moment.

Then, her voice barely above a whisper, “Are you really gonna come to Dallas?”

You turned toward her fully, one leg sliding off the bed to ground yourself. “Yes.”

“You promise?”

You reached for her hand, threading your fingers together. “I promise.”

Her bottom lip quivered just slightly, and she bit down on it like she could swallow the emotion before it broke the surface.

“You’re not just saying that to make it easier.”

“No, Paige. I mean it.” You squeezed her hand. “Six months from now, I’ll be there. I’ll be in your apartment, probably fighting you for closet space and making you pasta after away games.”

She smiled, even as her eyes welled with tears. “You can’t cook.”

“I’m learning. I made that chicken stir fry last week.”

“That was microwaved chicken stir fry.”

“Still counts.”

She laughed through her tears, leaning in to press her forehead to yours. “God, I love you.”

You closed your eyes. “I love you too.”

There were things you didn’t say—like how terrified you were of her leaving, how the thought of waking up alone in your own dorm made your chest ache. How hard it would be to fall asleep without her cold feet pressing against your calves or her late-night whispered rants about practice drills.

But you also didn’t say how proud you were watching her step into this next chapter. You didn’t need to.

Instead, you kissed her—slow, lingering, full of everything you couldn’t fit into words. When you pulled away, her eyes stayed closed like she was memorizing the shape of your mouth.

“You’ll call?” she whispered.

“Every night,” you said. “Even if it’s just to hear you breathe.”

“That’s weird,” she teased.

“That’s love.”

She leaned into your chest, burying her face in your neck, and you held her. You didn’t move for a long time.

When she left for the airport the next morning, her fingers gripped yours until the last possible moment. You kissed her like you were writing a promise into her mouth. Six months, you told her again. You’ll be there in six months.

And as she stepped through the terminal gate, looking back at you with tears in her eyes and her Wings hoodie pulled tight around her, you smiled through your own heartbreak.

Because you meant it.

And because some promises don’t need reminders.

They just need time.

Dallas felt bigger than it looked on a map.

Everything about it—traffic, heat, even the sky—seemed stretched, like someone had pulled the edges of a familiar world just far enough to make it unrecognizable.

Paige sat alone on the living room floor of her new apartment, a half-unpacked box of plates beside her and a phone balanced on her knee. Her wallpaper was still a photo of you— blurry, mid-laugh, sitting cross-legged in the grass at a park. It was from a late spring picnic, right before you both had to pretend you weren’t about to say goodbye.

She stared at the screen like it might blink and bring you back.

You answered after the third ring, your voice a little breathless. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Paige whispered. It came out softer than she meant. Her chest ached.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” you asked.

“No. Just… sitting.”

“On the floor?”

“Yeah. I don’t know where my couch screws went. I might be living a cushion life for a while.”

You laughed—real, warm, familiar. Paige closed her eyes and let it coat the inside of her ribs.

“That’s kind of poetic,” you said. “Starting your WNBA career on the floor of an empty apartment.”

“Feels more pathetic than poetic.”

“No. I like it. It’s humble.”

Paige exhaled, and her voice cracked just slightly. “I miss you.”

The line was quiet for a second. Then you spoke, your voice gentler. “I miss you too.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. “I keep forgetting you’re not ten minutes away. Like today, I had a good practice, and my first thought was ‘I’m gonna stop by your place and tell you everything.’ And then I remembered.”

“I know,” you said. “I do that too.”

“I drove past a coffee shop the other day and almost walked in just to see if you’d be there. Even though you’ve never even been to Texas.”

You smiled, she could hear it. “You’re thinking of the one near Gampel, huh?”

“Yeah.” She swallowed. “The one where you studied and I’d show up pretending I needed help with nutrition class.”

“You did need help.”

“Whatever. It worked.”

She leaned her head back against the wall and looked around at the blank space surrounding her. The moving truck had come and gone. The furniture was in, but the soul of the apartment hadn’t arrived yet.

It was still missing you.

“How’s school?” she asked.

“Chaotic,” you replied. “One of the kids asked me today if people in the ‘old times’ had internet. I said, ‘Define old.’ He said, ‘Like 2005.’”

Paige laughed, shaking her head. “Rude.”

“I’m ancient now,” you said. “Twenty-two and deteriorating.”

“You better still have the strength to carry all your stuff up three flights when you get here.”

“Oh, I do. I’m saving it all up for the move.”

Her smile faltered. “You’re still coming, right?”

You went quiet again. Not hesitant—just letting it settle, weighty and certain.

“Of course I am.”

Paige closed her eyes. “Promise?”

“I already did.”

“I just…” Her voice trailed. “It’s hard. Not hearing your keys in the door. Not getting to see your face at the end of the day. I love my team, I really do—but they’re not you.”

“I’m not replacing anyone,” you said. “Just adding to it.”

She let that sit with her. “I want you here so bad it hurts sometimes.”

“I know,” you whispered. “Me too.”

Her voice shook. “I don’t want us to change.”

“We won’t.”

“But long distance changes people.”

“Maybe,” you admitted. “But not us. It might make things harder. But not worse.”

She nodded, even though you couldn’t see it. “I just feel like I’m floating through all this without you. The practices, the press, the apartment—it all feels… half real.”

“Paige,” you said, gentle, firm. “I am coming. I’m not drifting away from you. I’m just walking the longer path to the same place.”

She let the silence wrap around her.

“Say something else,” she said softly. “Just talk to me.”

You paused. “Okay… I hung up pictures in my room. There’s one of us from last spring. You’ve got your mouth full of apple slices and you’re giving me the middle finger because I said you looked like a squirrel.”

She laughed. “I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

Paige smiled, small but genuine. She pictured it. You, in your tiny off-campus apartment. Talking about her like she was still part of your day. She was. You were hers, too.

“I love you,” Paige said.

“I love you more,” you answered.

The days ticked by slower than she liked.

Some nights, she fell asleep with the phone still in her hand, your voice still echoing in her ears from a half-finished conversation. Other nights, she'd stay up scrolling through old pictures, rereading texts, listening to voicemails.

Her teammates teased her about being a hopeless romantic. About how she smiled every time your name came up. About how she always checked her phone like she was waiting for someone to come home.

And she was.

Because in six months—five, now—you would.

And when that day came, Paige knew, no amount of missed calls or empty beds would matter. Because you’d be there. You’d walk through the door with a duffel bag and a tired smile, and she'd finally feel whole again.

But until then… she’d wait.

With her phone in her hand. And your promise in her heart.

The calendar on Paige’s fridge had six weeks circled in red.

It was stupid, maybe, using a physical calendar like some suburban mom—but it grounded her. It gave shape to time that otherwise felt endless. Each “X” she scribbled through a square made the space between now and your arrival just a little smaller.

But it didn’t make the missing hurt any less.

Paige sat curled on the apartment couch, legs tucked under her, bowl of cereal in one hand, phone pressed to her cheek with the other. Her hair was still damp from practice. Her whole body ached—but nothing ached more than the space beside her on the couch.

“I got a voicemail from one of my students today,” your voice said through the speaker. “He said, ‘Miss Y/L/N, I hope you feel better because math was boring without you.’ And then he just hung up. No goodbye. Just vibes.”

Paige chuckled, staring out the window at the pink glow bleeding across the Dallas sky. “You’re their favorite.”

“They’re my favorites too. Even when they call me 'mom' by accident and pretend like it didn’t happen.”

“You do have teacher-mom energy.”

“Oh, shut up,” you said with a laugh. “You miss my teacher-mom energy.”

“Painfully.”

A beat of silence.

“I’m looking at your sweatshirt right now,” you said after a moment. “You left it in my car before you moved. I wore it to bed last night.”

That pulled a breath from Paige she didn’t know she was holding. “Did it still smell like me?”

“It did. Faintly. Like that vanilla lotion you always forget to pack on road trips.”

She smiled. “I haven’t used it since I left.”

“Save it for me?”

“Always.”

She shifted, curling tighter into herself. “Today was hard.”

“Tell me.”

“Team media stuff,” Paige mumbled. “Photos, press questions, PR meetings. They asked about goals. Stats. Leadership. Playmaking. All I could think was, none of that matters until you’re here.”

You were quiet for a moment. “I don’t want to be the reason you’re not present here, Paige.”

“You’re not. You’re the reason I am.” She pressed the heel of her hand into her eye, blinking fast. “I show up every day because I know you’ll be here soon. It’s the only thing keeping me steady.”

You exhaled softly on the other end of the line.

“I’m coming. You know that.”

“I know.”

“But you need to live this part too, babe. Not just wait for me to catch up.”

Paige looked down at the rug. Her socked toe circled the same loop in the fabric she always traced when she was anxious.

“I’m trying,” she whispered.

“I know you are,” you said, gentle and true.

She listened to your breathing—steady, familiar, comforting like a lullaby only she ever got to hear.

“I got your letter,” you said after a pause.

Her breath caught. “You did?”

“It was in my mailbox when I got home today. I read it twice. I cried.”

“Yeah?” Her throat tightened. “I wasn’t sure if I should send it.”

“I’m glad you did.” You paused. “The part where you said you wake up sometimes expecting me to be next to you… that broke me.”

“It breaks me too,” she admitted.

You went quiet, and for a second she thought maybe the call had dropped. But then you spoke, voice lower than before.

“I still sleep on my side of the bed.”

Paige’s eyes burned. “Me too.”

More silence. Not awkward—just full. Weighted. Safe.

“I’ve been drafting lesson plans on weekends,” you said eventually. “Every time I write one, I imagine grading papers at your kitchen table. Coffee beside me. You half-asleep, stealing bites of my breakfast.”

“I want that so bad,” Paige whispered. “Just… life with you.”

“You’ll have it.”

“I’m scared something’s gonna change before then.”

You were quiet. “Do you feel me changing?”

“No,” she answered immediately. “No. I feel you more than ever.”

“Then trust that.”

She let her head fall back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut. “I trust you.”

“Good,” you whispered. “Because I’m not going anywhere. Even if it feels like I’m not close yet—I am. I’m getting closer every single day.”

Paige exhaled shakily. “I need you.”

“You have me.”

It was the kind of sentence Paige wanted to wrap herself in. Warm. Safe. Whole.

“I love you,” she said.

“I love you more,” you replied. “Thirty-nine days.”

She smiled.

Thirty-nine days.

She could wait a little longer.

Paige had never looked at a calendar so obsessively in her life.

Thirteen days.

She’d circled the date in three different colors now. Red, then black, then silver Sharpie because it felt permanent. Final. Like a promise.

Thirteen days until you arrived in Dallas. Thirteen days until she wouldn’t have to fall asleep hugging a pillow that didn’t breathe. Until she wouldn’t have to whisper “I love you” to a lock screen photo anymore.

Her teammates noticed.

“You good, Bueckers?” Arike asked at practice after she botched a layup drill for the third time.

“Yeah. Just… distracted.”

DiJonai raised a brow. “Your girl coming soon?”

Paige glanced down at the court, tried to hide her smile. “Thirteen days.”

Arike let out a low whistle. “We’re about to meet the mysterious teacher girlfriend.”

“She’s real?” Maddy Siegrist joked from the sideline. “I thought y’all made her up for the plot.”

“Shut up,” Paige muttered, but she was grinning.

That night, her phone buzzed with a picture.

You. In the mirror. Hair still damp from a shower, her oversized Wings hoodie falling off one shoulder. The caption underneath said, “Borrowed this. Sorry, not sorry.”

Paige melted into her mattress.

“That’s the only crime I fully endorse.”

Then she FaceTimed you.

You answered almost immediately, face bright despite the bags under your eyes. “Hey, superstar.”

“Hey, thief.”

You smiled. “Caught me.”

“You look good in that.”

“I better. You left it behind for a reason.”

“I did,” Paige said softly. “So you’d have something to hold until I could do it myself again.”

Your face shifted, tenderness blooming at the edges of your eyes. “Two weeks.”

“Twelve days.”

You sighed, smiling into the phone like she’d pressed a kiss to your cheek through the screen. “I packed up my classroom today. Left a note on the desk for the next TA.”

Paige nodded. “It’s real now, huh?”

“It’s always been real,” you said. “But now it’s here. It’s close.”

Paige ran a hand through her hair, breath shaky. “I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“That something will go wrong. That the plane will get canceled. Or your offer will fall through. Or you’ll—”

“I’m coming,” you interrupted, firm, grounding her. “There’s no ‘what if.’ I’m coming. Eleven days and twenty hours. I counted.”

Paige stared at you for a long second.

“Come sleep on the call,” she said quietly.

You blinked. “You want me to fall asleep with you on the phone?”

“I want to hear you breathe,” she whispered. “I want to pretend the distance isn’t real for one night.”

You didn’t hesitate. “Okay.”

She propped her phone up on the pillow beside her. You did the same. It wasn’t perfect—fuzzy audio, a time delay—but it was yours. You talked about nothing for a while. What you made for dinner (pasta), the paper you were editing (some kid plagiarized a poem about dogs), your grocery list for when you moved in (cereal, way too much oat milk, frozen dumplings).

And then it got quiet.

Your voice came soft in the dark, “Ten days tomorrow.”

“I know,” Paige murmured. “It’s starting to feel real.”

“It is real.”

She reached for the screen, like touching glass could bridge miles. “I can’t wait to kiss you again.”

You let out a breath. “Don’t make me cry this late.”

“I just miss you,” Paige said, voice cracking.

“I know, baby. I miss you too.”

Seven days before you arrive, a package showed up at her door with your name scribbled across the top.

Inside was a box of school supplies—pens, Post-its, paper clips—and a hand-written note.

“Figured I should bring some of me to you before I physically can. Can’t wait to leave these all over your kitchen table. Love you always, Your favorite teacher.”

She cried for fifteen minutes after opening it

Four days before, she sat at a team dinner scrolling through your texts, tuning out everything else.

Her phone buzzed.

“T-minus 96 hours. Pack extra chapstick. You’re not escaping all the kisses I owe you.”

She nearly choked on her lemonade.

She didn’t sleep.

She lay on the couch in your sweatshirt, staring at the ceiling, heart galloping in her chest like she was waiting for Christmas morning.

The phone rang at 1:08 AM.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked.

“Nope.”

“Me neither.”

You were quiet together for a while. Then Paige whispered, “Where are you?”

You laughed. “Still in Connecticut. Bags packed. Suitcase by the door. I keep checking my flight time every ten minutes.”

“Me too,” she said. “I keep opening the guest closet to make sure I left you enough space.”

“You didn’t.”

“Guess we’ll be sharing hangers then.” A pause. “Next time I call you,” you said, “it won’t be through a screen.”

Paige closed her eyes. “I’m gonna hold you so tight.”

“I’m gonna let you.”

Two days before.

The sun in Dallas was blinding. Unreasonably bright for a city that had no idea her world was about to tilt.

Paige had just gotten home from practice, keys still in hand, backpack sliding off her shoulder when she grabbed her phone.

One new message from you.

“On the way to my last class now—remind me to tell you about the 8th grader who tried to give me a friendship bracelet today. He said it was for luck on my big move .”

She smiled. She sat on the arm of the couch and typed fast.

“That’s the cutest thing ever.”

Delivered.

No read receipt. That was fine. You were still in class.

An hour passed.

She sent another.

“Dinner’s on me when you land. I bought dumplings. Don’t fight me.”

No response.

She waited.

She called around 9 p.m.

Once. Twice.

Three rings, voicemail.

She left a message.

“Hey, you okay? I know you’ve probably got a million things going on—boxes, checklists, last-minute goodbyes—but… just call me when you get a second, okay? I just want to hear your voice.”

She kept her phone next to her pillow that night, volume up, screen brightness high.

Nothing.

One day before.

The silence clung to her.

She woke with a headache, heart already racing, the cold side of the bed feeling like an accusation.

Still nothing from you.

Paige rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling.

“This is fine,” she whispered to herself. “You’re just busy. You’re probably with your family. Maybe your phone died.”

She called again.

Straight to voicemail.

She texted.

“I’m starting to worry. Just… send me a thumbs up or anything. Please.”

Nothing.

She paced the apartment, uneaten toast still on her plate, coffee gone cold in her mug.

That night, she sat on the kitchen floor in front of the fridge, phone in her lap, eyes red.

“Where are you?” “Baby, please.” “Just tell me you're okay.” “I don’t care if you’re not getting on the plane. I just need to know you're okay.”

She didn’t sleep.

Just stared at the wall.

The day of.

She cleaned the apartment top to bottom.

She couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t cry again.

You were supposed to land at 4:27 p.m.

She stared at the time on her screen—4:00… 4:15… 4:27… 4:40.

No call. No knock at the door. No text.

She scrolled to the airport’s arrival board online. Typed your flight number. Watched it switch from Scheduled to Landed.

Still nothing.

She picked up her phone again. Shaking fingers. Dialed.

Voicemail.

She left one anyway, voice cracking.

“Please don’t do this to me. Please. Just… I need you. I need to know if you’re—if you’re safe. If you changed your mind, I’ll understand. I swear, I’ll understand. Just don’t let it end like this. Not in silence.”

She hung up.

Then slumped down against the front door and broke.

Her body folded over itself. Sobs racked through her like her heart had forgotten how to beat without yours to match it. She stayed there, curled up, whispering your name like a prayer.

She didn’t turn the lights on.

She sat in the dark with your hoodie balled up in her arms and her phone still in her hand.

Her last text read, “I’ll wait by the door.”

But she never heard the knock.

Paige sat on the apartment floor again, back pressed against the kitchen cabinets. The tile was cold beneath her legs. She hadn’t eaten more than toast in 36 hours.

The dumplings were still in the freezer. She hadn’t touched them. Couldn’t.

She refreshed her texts.

Still no read receipts. Still no dots. Still no “Delivered” beneath her messages.

She called again.

Straight to voicemail.

She whispered into the silence like maybe this time the void would answer her.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” she said. “I don’t know if you’re ghosting me or if you’re gone. Please—please—just give me something. Let me hate you. Let me worry. Just don’t let me do both.”

She hung up. Laid down. Didn’t move.

She went to practice. No one said anything until the third missed shot in a row.

“Yo,” Arike called out. “You good, Paige?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just wiped sweat from her brow and threw the ball at the nearest rack.

“Fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I said I’m fine,” Paige snapped, sharper than she meant to. Her voice echoed off the gym walls like a slap.

Her teammates exchanged looks.

“Alright,” Nai said as they walked out of the locker room. “Spill. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Try again.”

Paige exhaled, shoulders slumped. “She was supposed to be here. Three days ago.”

Nai paused. “Wait—your girl? She didn’t come?”

“No call. No text. No voicemail. Nothing.”

Nai’s face softened. “Shit, Paige…”

“I don’t even know if she’s alive.”

“Have you… talked to anyone? Like, her friends, her mom—?”

“She’s private about that. Her family… it’s complicated.”

Nai hesitated. “Did she ever give any signs that she wouldn’t come?”

“No.” Paige blinked hard. “She was excited. We planned everything down to the shelf space. She sent me a letter. She told me she was counting hours. And now it’s just—gone.”

Nai put a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll figure it out.”

Paige flinched. “What if there’s nothing to figure out?”

Nai didn’t answer that.

The team had an off day.

Paige didn’t leave bed.

She watched your old videos on her phone—the ones you sent her when you used to stay up late decorating your classroom or making grilled cheese while dancing around your kitchen.

She watched them on loop until her phone died.

And then she just laid there, eyes burning.

Maddy brought takeout over.

“You need to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I didn’t ask.”

They sat in silence on the couch. Paige pushed rice around her plate without lifting the fork once.

Maddy glanced at her. “Is there any chance she—like, she couldn’t call?”

Paige’s voice cracked. “I don’t know. I’ve thought of everything. Every possibility. Car accident. No service. Anxiety. Cold feet. But it’s been over a week.”

“Have you heard anything?”

Paige shook her head. “Her phone goes straight to voicemail. Her email bounced. Her socials are dark. It’s like she fell off the planet.”

“Bueckers…”

“I keep checking the door,” Paige whispered. “I know she’s not coming, but I can’t help it. I still wake up thinking I’ll hear her keys.”

Maddy’s voice went soft. “You really loved her, huh?”

Paige nodded, eyes shining. “Still do.”

The media started noticing.

Her stats dropped. Her answers got shorter. Smiles didn’t reach her eyes.

In a post-practice interview, someone asked, “Everything okay off the court?”

She blinked, stunned into stillness.

Then nodded once.

But when she got back to the locker room, she cried into her jersey until her shoulders shook and her breath hitched and she didn’t know how to stop.

She texted you again.

“It’s been almost two weeks. Please. I’m not mad. I just need to know if you’re okay. I won’t ask anything else. Just… say something. Anything.”

She stared at the screen for hours.

Nothing.

She scrolled through every old message. Every photo. Every “I love you more.” Every kiss emoji. Every half-finished voice memo you never sent but saved for later.

She played one on loop.

“God, I can’t wait to be there. To be home. With you.”

And then, when her hands couldn’t stop shaking, she recorded one of her own. She didn’t know if it would ever be heard. But she sent it anyway.

“Hey. It’s Paige. I guess this is… my last message. I don’t know if you’re out there, or if you changed your mind, or if something happened and you’re too scared to tell me. But I still love you. And I always will. No matter what.”

She hit send.

And this time, she didn’t wait for the three dots to appear.

There was a new voicemail on Paige’s phone.

Not from you.

Just a spam number, something about her car warranty.

She deleted it without listening.

Your name—your entire thread—was now buried in her messages. She hadn’t opened it in four days. Not because she didn’t care. Because she couldn’t.

Every time she saw it, her stomach clenched. Not from love. From loss.

You had disappeared 25 days ago.

She used to count the days with hope. Now it just felt like proof that people vanish. Even the ones who swore they’d never leave.

Her texts to you had slowed. At first they’d been frantic—ten a day, calls at every hour. Then five a day. Then one. Then every few days.

Now? Nothing in almost a week.

She didn’t even cry anymore.

She just… lived.

Empty. Quiet. Going through the motions.

Practice was quiet. No jokes. No trash talk. Just the dull thud of the ball against hardwood and the squeak of sneakers she barely registered anymore.

Her shooting percentage had dropped 8%.

The coaching staff hadn’t said anything yet, but she could feel it. The stares. The sighs. The weight of eyes tracking her when they thought she wasn’t looking.

After practice, she sat on the locker room bench for ten minutes too long, staring at the wall like it might say something. Like you used to.

She pulled out her phone.

No new messages. No calls.

She scrolled to your contact anyway. Just to see it. Just to remind herself that once, there was a world where your name lit up her screen like sunlight.

She closed the app.

Went home.

Didn’t even shower.

Her phone rang.

She was mid-laundry, a damp towel slung over one arm, the apartment humid from the dryer running too long.

She didn’t check it immediately. Assumed it was Nai or maybe Coach.

It rang again.

She glanced over.

Paused.

Your name.

Your contact photo—the one she took on a lazy spring day, you in her hoodie, your cheeks pink from sun and laughter.

She froze. The call kept ringing. Her thumb hovered. She didn’t move. She just watched it ring. Watched it buzz against the counter like it hadn’t been silent for a month.

Then she let it stop. Didn’t touch it. Didn’t breathe. The screen went dark. She stood still for a long time. It rang again. Same name. Same photo. Same ringtone she hadn’t changed since the day you set it for yourself.

But this time, something cracked in her chest—not a sob, not panic. Just anger. Cold, bitter, exhausted anger.

You didn’t get to vanish for four weeks and come back like nothing happened. You didn’t get to disappear and then dial her number like it was safe to do so. You didn’t get to decide when she hurt. She watched it ring again. Didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

She whispered into the silence, voice flat, “You don’t get to do this to me.”

Then the call ended. And the phone was quiet again. And she sat down on the kitchen floor like she had the first night you didn’t show up. But this time, she didn’t cry. This time, she just turned the phone over, face down.

Let the silence reclaim the room.

The lights at Target Center always made Paige feel electric.

It was different being back here—being home. But nothing about tonight felt comforting.

She was sharp in warmups. Crisp. Clean. Cold. Her jumper was falling like clockwork. Her footwork flawless. Her body obeyed in a way her heart hadn’t for weeks.

She was pissed.

And she was going to take it out on the court.

Fans were already filling in as she paced the baseline, headphones slung around her neck, eyes unfocused as she dribbled through sets.

And then—she saw her.

Your mom.

Sitting alone. Courtside. Seat 3A. The one you said was your favorite seat cause you could watch her without getting blocked by other people.

She was smaller than Paige remembered. Or maybe just older. Her coat was folded neatly in her lap, hands clutching it like it could keep her together.

Paige’s heart stuttered.

She looked away.

Kept warming up.

Refused to let herself feel anything.

Not now. Not after four weeks of unanswered calls. Not after those two rings she let pass without lifting a finger.

She buried the sight of her behind a wall of rage. Let her heartbeat sync with the squeak of shoes, the thud of the ball, the echo of her name being announced with fire in the intro video.

And when the game started?

She was unreal.

Floaters. Crossovers. Mid-range pull-ups that never touched the rim.

By halftime, she had 18 points and 5 assists.

By the end of the third quarter, 27 points, 3 steals, and the crowd was roaring every time she touched the ball.

She didn’t crack. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

Not until the final buzzer sounded.

Not until she saw your mom again.

Still there. Still alone.

Waiting.

She pulled her warmup jacket on and started walking toward the tunnel, jaw tight, jaw locked.

“Paige.” She didn’t stop. “Paige, please.”

No.

No.

She kept walking. One foot in front of the other.

“She didn’t break her promise to you.”

That made her pause.

Your mom’s voice cracked through the noise like a crack in glass.

“She didn’t leave you.”

Paige’s breath caught.

She turned—slow, deliberate.

Your mom was standing now, gripping the railing, eyes already shining with tears.

“She was coming to you,” she whispered. “She never stopped loving you.”

“What did you just say?” Paige’s voice was a whisper.

The older woman’s lips trembled. “Can we… Can we talk somewhere else?”

Paige didn’t respond.

Just reached for her, fingers numb, and pulled her through the tunnel, past a stunned PR intern, down the hallway.

Into the locker room.

Empty.

Silent.

She shut the door behind them. Locked it.

Turned around.

“Say it again,” she said. Not a request. A plea.

Your mother stared at her, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. Her voice was barely there.

“She was on her way to Dallas,” she said. “She left two days early. Wanted to surprise you.”

Paige didn’t move.

“She was so excited. She couldn’t stop smiling. Said she wanted to be there when you got home from practice, said she couldn’t wait another day. She didn’t even tell me. I found the note on the kitchen table.”

Paige’s knees buckled.

She caught herself on the edge of a bench. “No,” she whispered.

“She got in the car that morning. Early. She never made it to the airport.”

Her heart stopped.

“She was hit by a semi on I-95. Fog was thick. The driver didn’t see her. She died on impact.”

Paige didn’t breathe. Couldn’t.

Your mother’s eyes filled again. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t know—how to reach you. I didn’t have your number, not anymore. I tried social media, but…”

“You didn’t call the team?” Paige’s voice was raw.

“I tried, but they didn’t believe me.”

Paige’s hands were shaking.

Your mother took a slow step forward. “She had gifts in the car. Her famous dumplings. Your favorite lotion. And a sweatshirt she swore would make you cry. She had this whole plan. She wanted to sneak in and wait on your couch.”

Paige let out a broken laugh. “That sounds like her.”

“She loved you so much.”

“I know,” Paige whispered, the first tear falling. “I know.”

And then she couldn’t stop them.

They came all at once—weeks of confusion, silence, fury, grief—crashing over her like a wave she never saw coming.

She sobbed into her hands, whole body trembling.

“She said she was coming,” Paige cried. “I waited. I waited so long.”

Your mother stepped forward, slowly, and sat beside her. She didn’t speak. Just reached for Paige’s hand.

It was cold. Small. Familiar.

“She tried,” she said.

That was all.

And it was everything.

That night, Paige didn’t go out with the team. Didn’t talk to media. Didn’t even turn on the lights when she got back to her hotel room.

She laid in bed, clutching her phone.

Opened your last message—the one with the bracelet story.

She read it over and over until her eyes blurred.

Then she opened her voicemails. The one you never got to hear.

She hit play.

And for the first time, she let herself believe you heard it after all.

The rest of the Wings flew back to Dallas the next morning.

Paige didn’t.

She sent a text to her coach. “I need a few more days. I’ll explain when I can.” She didn’t get a reply, just three dots. “Take your time. We’ve got you.”

Your mother offered her the guest room without hesitation.

But Paige couldn’t sleep.

She sat in your driveway for almost half an hour before walking inside, her duffel bag untouched in the trunk. The porch creaked the same way it had in high school. The air smelled like cinnamon and old books. The light in the hallway still flickered if you walked too fast.

The house felt like it had been paused mid-laugh.

Your mother gave her a quiet smile. “You can go up if you want.”

Paige hesitated at the stairs.

“I haven’t changed a thing,” she added.

Paige nodded.

And climbed.

Each step was an echo.

Your bedroom door was half-closed.

She pushed it open slowly, like the room might wake up.

It looked exactly the same.

The posters. The scuffed desk. The stack of books under your windowsill. The UConn flag pinned above your bed from the day you got your acceptance letter.

It felt like walking into a snow globe—perfectly preserved, terrifyingly still.

Her legs moved without permission. She stood in the center of the room, eyes darting from corner to corner.

There was the dent in the wall where you’d knocked your chair back too far trying to recreate a TikTok dance.

There was the blanket she gave you senior year—navy blue, your name and hers stitched into the corner like some inside joke you never explained to anyone else.

There was your old lanyard, still hanging from the doorknob.

And then her eyes landed on it.

The photo frame on your nightstand.

It was them.

Her and you.

From sophomore year.

Both in hoodies, half-asleep on your porch swing. She was leaning into you, your arm around her, eyes closed. You were laughing—head tilted, light spilling from you like a secret the world didn’t deserve.

She staggered forward.

Knees hit the side of the bed.

She picked up the frame with trembling hands. Traced your face with her thumb. Pressed it to her chest like it was the only part of you left.

That’s when it broke.

All of it.

The strength. The waiting. The hope. The disbelief.

She collapsed onto your bed in sobs that felt like thunder.

Big, gasping, shoulder-racking sobs.

“Why,” she cried into your pillow, voice muffled, raw. “Why didn’t I pick you up myself? Why didn’t I call more? Send someone? Why wasn’t I there?”

The pillow soaked beneath her. Your scent still faint.

She curled into it like it could answer her.

“God, you were right there. You were coming to me—early. And I didn’t—I didn’t even get to see you.”

The photo dropped from her hand and landed face-up beside her.

Her tears made the glass shimmer.

She pressed her cheek to it.

“Come back,” she whispered. “Please, baby. I don’t know how to live without you.”

She stayed there for what felt like hours.

Maybe it was.

No one came to check. Your mother didn’t knock. She must’ve known—must’ve felt it.

Paige eventually sat up, wiped her eyes on your sweatshirt still folded at the foot of your bed.

Her voice was wrecked when she finally whispered, “I never stopped waiting for you.”

And maybe she never would.

The cemetery was quiet.

The kind of quiet that made you feel like time had paused just long enough for the earth to breathe.

It was a cool, overcast morning—no sun, no shadows. Just that still, aching gray that matched the way Paige’s heart had felt since the moment she heard the words "she was on her way to surprise you."

Your mother had told her where to go.

Plot 47. Near the far oak. The one that turns red the first in fall.

The walk from the parking lot was long.

Paige carried a bouquet in one hand—sunflowers and dahlias, wrapped in twine. You always said they looked like fireworks made out of joy. She never forgot that.

Her other hand stayed tucked in her jacket pocket, fingers curled tight like she might fall apart if she let them open.

When she reached your grave, she just stood.

Still.

Frozen.

Your name was etched in marble now. Sharp, clean lettering. Birth year. Dash. End year.

Too soon. So unfairly soon.

Beneath it, a line she recognized.

She loved loudly. She laughed often. She never said goodbye without meaning it.

Paige bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.

She knelt slowly. Placed the flowers at the base. Adjusted them twice, even though they were already perfect.

And then she sat.

Cross-legged on the grass.

Facing you.

“I thought I’d have more time,” she said quietly.

The breeze stirred the petals.

“I thought you’d walk into my apartment two days early and I’d laugh and tell you you were crazy for not telling me. I thought we’d fight about cabinet space. I thought I’d kiss you every night for the rest of my life.”

She swallowed hard.

“But instead… I’m sitting here. And this is the first time I’ve seen your name in stone.”

A pause.

“I was angry. Your mom called me after a month of silence and I was angry. I didn’t know you were on your way to me. I didn’t know you never made it.”

She looked down, hands clenched in her lap.

“I thought you left me.”

Her breath trembled.

“I didn’t know you were trying to come home.”

She looked up at the sky.

“I would’ve waited at the airport all day if I had known. I would’ve driven to Minnesota and brought you myself. I would’ve done anything, anything, to see you one more time.”

Her jaw tensed. Eyes shined with fresh tears.

“I still talk to you. Every night. I sleep in your hoodie. I make coffee and pour two mugs like an idiot.”

She wiped her face with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

“The team doesn’t ask anymore. I think they’re scared of breaking me. But I’ve already been broken.”

She took a breath.

“But I’m still here.”

The wind picked up. Rustled the oak leaves above.

“I went back to your bedroom,” Paige said. “It looked exactly the same. Like you were just at school and would be home by dinner.”

She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a small laminated photo—the same one that had sat on your nightstand. The one of the two of you from sophomore year. She laid it gently between the flowers and the stone.

“I wanted to leave this with you,” she said. “Because even if I have to move forward, I’m not leaving you. You’re still the best part of me.”

A gust of wind blew through the grass. Paige looked down.

Her voice dropped, barely audible.

“I love you,” she whispered. “And I always will.”

She sat there for a long time.

Telling you about her next game. About the dumplings she finally cooked. About the song that made her think of you last week and how she cried in the car on the way to practice.

She stayed until the sun started peeking out again. Until the clouds began to thin and the shadows returned.

Then she stood. Pressed two fingers to her lips. Then to your name.

And walked away.

The flowers swayed in the breeze behind her.

The picture stayed.

You stayed.

The cheers were deafening.

It was the second round of the playoffs. Dallas had clawed their way in, and now they were clawing their way forward. The whole arena stood as Paige walked toward center court, Rookie of the Year graphic blazing behind her.

Bright lights. Brighter smile.

But behind that smile, a tremor.

She hadn’t slept much the night before. Not because of nerves. But because the one person she wanted to share this with wasn’t there.

Would never be there again.

She stepped forward, hands steady despite the storm inside her. Her name echoed from the speakers. “2025 WNBA Rookie of the Year… Paige Bueckers!”

Applause.

Spotlights.

Cameras flashing.

A league rep handed her the trophy—sleek, metallic, engraved. Her fingers curled around it automatically. Like she was on autopilot.

She turned to the mic.

The crowd quieted.

Her voice started strong.

“Um… wow. This means the world. First of all, thank you to the league, my teammates, my coaches. The Dallas Wings believed in me the second they drafted me, and I hope I’ve made them proud.”

More cheers.

She smiled faintly.

“I want to thank my family. My friends. The fans. And my hometown—Hopkins, I love you.”

More applause.

Then a pause.

She glanced down at the trophy in her hand. Her fingers tightened.

Her voice softened.

“But… there’s someone else I need to thank.”

The arena stilled.

Paige’s throat bobbed.

“She… she should’ve been here. And she almost was.”

The crowd hushed.

Paige blinked up at the rafters like she was asking for strength from a sky that still felt too far away.

“She was the first person who told me I was going to make it here. She saw this moment before I did. She believed in me when I was tired. She reminded me why I loved this game when I couldn’t feel it.”

She looked directly into the camera.

“Thank you for loving me. For believing in me. For being the kindest, brightest part of my life. This award… I share it with you. I dedicate it to you.”

A single tear slid down her cheek.

“You didn’t make it to the game. But you made me. Every piece of me. So I carry you every time I step on this court.”

The crowd began clapping—slow, quiet. Then stronger. Louder.

Rising like a wave.

Paige stepped back from the mic.

She raised the trophy once. Small, solemn.

And whispered, not into the microphone, but just to the air.

“I hope you’re proud of me.”

The cemetery was quiet again.

Autumn had arrived. The oak tree beside your grave had started to turn—flaming reds and soft oranges bleeding down through the branches like a slow goodbye.

Paige walked the familiar path in silence.

No cameras. No team. No PR handlers. No trophy case.

Just her.

And the small velvet-lined box tucked under her arm.

She wore your hoodie. It still smelled faintly like your shampoo. It was a little too worn now, the cuffs fraying. But it was hers. And it had been yours. And that made it holy.

When she reached your grave, she knelt.

The headstone hadn’t changed. Still your name. Still that cruel little dash between two years that weren’t enough. Still that line.

She never said goodbye without meaning it.

Paige set the box down beside the sunflowers and dahlias she’d brought. The same flowers she always did.

She didn’t open the box right away.

Just stared at your name. Let the wind brush over her face. Let the silence wrap around her like a question with no answer.

“I said I’d bring it to you,” she whispered eventually.

Her fingers found the edges of the velvet. She lifted the lid.

Inside was her Rookie of the Year trophy—well, a replica. The league had sent a second version when they needed to display the original. She didn’t correct them. She was glad for it.

Because this one was for you.

She picked it up gently. Placed it against the stone.

“This was yours before it was mine,” she said. “You trained me in the off-seasons. You studied game tape with me. You kept me grounded when I got caught in my own head.”

She exhaled. It sounded like surrender.

“I know I said the words in my speech. But I needed to say them here.”

A leaf drifted down between them.

She smiled faintly.

“I miss you every day. I talk to you before every game. I look for your face in every crowd. I still text you sometimes. Even though I know the only place I can send anything now… is here.”

She touched the trophy. Then the top edge of your headstone.

“I hope wherever you are, you’re still loud. Still laughing. Still correcting my form from the sidelines and making fun of how dramatic I get during interviews.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away.

“I won, baby,” she whispered. “And it should’ve been us holding this together.”

Her voice dropped to something barely audible.

“But I’m still holding it for both of us.”

She leaned forward. Pressed a kiss to the marble.

And then sat beside your grave. Not in mourning.

But in memory.

She stayed until the sky turned pink behind the trees.

Then stood.

One last look at the trophy. At the stone. At the name she loved more than her own.

“I’ll be back,” she said. “That’s a promise.”

And when she walked away, the wind rustled the leaves—gentle, soft, as if the trees themselves whispered back.

I know.

[uncuredturkeybacon]

don’t sob too hard or you’ll get a headache

𝚜𝚒𝚡 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚜 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which love never ends

The sun filtered in through the half-closed blinds of Paige’s dorm room, casting soft strips of light across the hardwood floor. The room was half-packed—open boxes lined the bed, shoes spilling over the edge, books stacked in leaning towers by the door. A half-empty closet loomed in the corner like a reminder of all the time that had passed and how little of it was left.

You stood near her desk, folding up a Wings hoodie that had been sent in the mail last week, her name stitched in bold on the sleeve.

“She really said number one pick,” you teased gently, holding it up like a trophy.

Paige, sitting cross-legged on her bed, looked up at you and grinned. “She really did. Can you believe that?”

“No,” you said, smile twitching at the corner of your mouth. “But I’m proud of her anyway.”

She tilted her head, her smile dimming into something quieter, more thoughtful. “I’m scared.”

You didn’t answer right away. You folded the hoodie neatly and placed it in the open suitcase at the edge of her bed, smoothing it down like it was fragile.

“I know,” you said softly.

“It’s not the game,” she clarified, glancing at you like she needed you to understand. “I’m not scared about basketball. I’m scared of going without you.”

You walked over and sat beside her, one foot tucked under your knee, your shoulder brushing hers.

“I’ll be there,” you said, firm, not flinching.

Paige leaned her head against your shoulder. “Six months feels like a long time.”

“It’s really not.”

“It feels like it.”

You rested your hand on her thigh, fingers curling just slightly into the fabric of her sweats. She was wearing your high school tee—old and oversized, faded from too many washes. You had given it to her years ago when she’d stolen it after a sleepover and never gave it back. You never asked her to.

“You have a whole season to get through,” you said gently. “I have students to teach and finals to grade and middle schoolers to keep from launching glue sticks at each other. It’ll go fast.”

Paige let out a small breath of laughter. “You really want to be a teacher, huh?”

“I already am. I’m a TA now, remember?” you bumped your shoulder against hers. “And I’ve already got my offer letter. Same school district my mom used to work in. Orientation’s the week after graduation.”

She turned toward you, eyes soft and serious. “That’s incredible.”

“You’re incredible,” you said before you could stop yourself.

Paige blinked, looking down like she needed to hide how fast she blushed. She always got like that when you said things too directly. Too honestly.

She didn’t say anything for a moment.

Then, her voice barely above a whisper, “Are you really gonna come to Dallas?”

You turned toward her fully, one leg sliding off the bed to ground yourself. “Yes.”

“You promise?”

You reached for her hand, threading your fingers together. “I promise.”

Her bottom lip quivered just slightly, and she bit down on it like she could swallow the emotion before it broke the surface.

“You’re not just saying that to make it easier.”

“No, Paige. I mean it.” You squeezed her hand. “Six months from now, I’ll be there. I’ll be in your apartment, probably fighting you for closet space and making you pasta after away games.”

She smiled, even as her eyes welled with tears. “You can’t cook.”

“I’m learning. I made that chicken stir fry last week.”

“That was microwaved chicken stir fry.”

“Still counts.”

She laughed through her tears, leaning in to press her forehead to yours. “God, I love you.”

You closed your eyes. “I love you too.”

There were things you didn’t say—like how terrified you were of her leaving, how the thought of waking up alone in your own dorm made your chest ache. How hard it would be to fall asleep without her cold feet pressing against your calves or her late-night whispered rants about practice drills.

But you also didn’t say how proud you were watching her step into this next chapter. You didn’t need to.

Instead, you kissed her—slow, lingering, full of everything you couldn’t fit into words. When you pulled away, her eyes stayed closed like she was memorizing the shape of your mouth.

“You’ll call?” she whispered.

“Every night,” you said. “Even if it’s just to hear you breathe.”

“That’s weird,” she teased.

“That’s love.”

She leaned into your chest, burying her face in your neck, and you held her. You didn’t move for a long time.

When she left for the airport the next morning, her fingers gripped yours until the last possible moment. You kissed her like you were writing a promise into her mouth. Six months, you told her again. You’ll be there in six months.

And as she stepped through the terminal gate, looking back at you with tears in her eyes and her Wings hoodie pulled tight around her, you smiled through your own heartbreak.

Because you meant it.

And because some promises don’t need reminders.

They just need time.

Dallas felt bigger than it looked on a map.

Everything about it—traffic, heat, even the sky—seemed stretched, like someone had pulled the edges of a familiar world just far enough to make it unrecognizable.

Paige sat alone on the living room floor of her new apartment, a half-unpacked box of plates beside her and a phone balanced on her knee. Her wallpaper was still a photo of you— blurry, mid-laugh, sitting cross-legged in the grass at a park. It was from a late spring picnic, right before you both had to pretend you weren’t about to say goodbye.

She stared at the screen like it might blink and bring you back.

You answered after the third ring, your voice a little breathless. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Paige whispered. It came out softer than she meant. Her chest ached.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” you asked.

“No. Just… sitting.”

“On the floor?”

“Yeah. I don’t know where my couch screws went. I might be living a cushion life for a while.”

You laughed—real, warm, familiar. Paige closed her eyes and let it coat the inside of her ribs.

“That’s kind of poetic,” you said. “Starting your WNBA career on the floor of an empty apartment.”

“Feels more pathetic than poetic.”

“No. I like it. It’s humble.”

Paige exhaled, and her voice cracked just slightly. “I miss you.”

The line was quiet for a second. Then you spoke, your voice gentler. “I miss you too.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. “I keep forgetting you’re not ten minutes away. Like today, I had a good practice, and my first thought was ‘I’m gonna stop by your place and tell you everything.’ And then I remembered.”

“I know,” you said. “I do that too.”

“I drove past a coffee shop the other day and almost walked in just to see if you’d be there. Even though you’ve never even been to Texas.”

You smiled, she could hear it. “You’re thinking of the one near Gampel, huh?”

“Yeah.” She swallowed. “The one where you studied and I’d show up pretending I needed help with nutrition class.”

“You did need help.”

“Whatever. It worked.”

She leaned her head back against the wall and looked around at the blank space surrounding her. The moving truck had come and gone. The furniture was in, but the soul of the apartment hadn’t arrived yet.

It was still missing you.

“How’s school?” she asked.

“Chaotic,” you replied. “One of the kids asked me today if people in the ‘old times’ had internet. I said, ‘Define old.’ He said, ‘Like 2005.’”

Paige laughed, shaking her head. “Rude.”

“I’m ancient now,” you said. “Twenty-two and deteriorating.”

“You better still have the strength to carry all your stuff up three flights when you get here.”

“Oh, I do. I’m saving it all up for the move.”

Her smile faltered. “You’re still coming, right?”

You went quiet again. Not hesitant—just letting it settle, weighty and certain.

“Of course I am.”

Paige closed her eyes. “Promise?”

“I already did.”

“I just…” Her voice trailed. “It’s hard. Not hearing your keys in the door. Not getting to see your face at the end of the day. I love my team, I really do—but they’re not you.”

“I’m not replacing anyone,” you said. “Just adding to it.”

She let that sit with her. “I want you here so bad it hurts sometimes.”

“I know,” you whispered. “Me too.”

Her voice shook. “I don’t want us to change.”

“We won’t.”

“But long distance changes people.”

“Maybe,” you admitted. “But not us. It might make things harder. But not worse.”

She nodded, even though you couldn’t see it. “I just feel like I’m floating through all this without you. The practices, the press, the apartment—it all feels… half real.”

“Paige,” you said, gentle, firm. “I am coming. I’m not drifting away from you. I’m just walking the longer path to the same place.”

She let the silence wrap around her.

“Say something else,” she said softly. “Just talk to me.”

You paused. “Okay… I hung up pictures in my room. There’s one of us from last spring. You’ve got your mouth full of apple slices and you’re giving me the middle finger because I said you looked like a squirrel.”

She laughed. “I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

Paige smiled, small but genuine. She pictured it. You, in your tiny off-campus apartment. Talking about her like she was still part of your day. She was. You were hers, too.

“I love you,” Paige said.

“I love you more,” you answered.

The days ticked by slower than she liked.

Some nights, she fell asleep with the phone still in her hand, your voice still echoing in her ears from a half-finished conversation. Other nights, she'd stay up scrolling through old pictures, rereading texts, listening to voicemails.

Her teammates teased her about being a hopeless romantic. About how she smiled every time your name came up. About how she always checked her phone like she was waiting for someone to come home.

And she was.

Because in six months—five, now—you would.

And when that day came, Paige knew, no amount of missed calls or empty beds would matter. Because you’d be there. You’d walk through the door with a duffel bag and a tired smile, and she'd finally feel whole again.

But until then… she’d wait.

With her phone in her hand. And your promise in her heart.

The calendar on Paige’s fridge had six weeks circled in red.

It was stupid, maybe, using a physical calendar like some suburban mom—but it grounded her. It gave shape to time that otherwise felt endless. Each “X” she scribbled through a square made the space between now and your arrival just a little smaller.

But it didn’t make the missing hurt any less.

Paige sat curled on the apartment couch, legs tucked under her, bowl of cereal in one hand, phone pressed to her cheek with the other. Her hair was still damp from practice. Her whole body ached—but nothing ached more than the space beside her on the couch.

“I got a voicemail from one of my students today,” your voice said through the speaker. “He said, ‘Miss Y/L/N, I hope you feel better because math was boring without you.’ And then he just hung up. No goodbye. Just vibes.”

Paige chuckled, staring out the window at the pink glow bleeding across the Dallas sky. “You’re their favorite.”

“They’re my favorites too. Even when they call me 'mom' by accident and pretend like it didn’t happen.”

“You do have teacher-mom energy.”

“Oh, shut up,” you said with a laugh. “You miss my teacher-mom energy.”

“Painfully.”

A beat of silence.

“I’m looking at your sweatshirt right now,” you said after a moment. “You left it in my car before you moved. I wore it to bed last night.”

That pulled a breath from Paige she didn’t know she was holding. “Did it still smell like me?”

“It did. Faintly. Like that vanilla lotion you always forget to pack on road trips.”

She smiled. “I haven’t used it since I left.”

“Save it for me?”

“Always.”

She shifted, curling tighter into herself. “Today was hard.”

“Tell me.”

“Team media stuff,” Paige mumbled. “Photos, press questions, PR meetings. They asked about goals. Stats. Leadership. Playmaking. All I could think was, none of that matters until you’re here.”

You were quiet for a moment. “I don’t want to be the reason you’re not present here, Paige.”

“You’re not. You’re the reason I am.” She pressed the heel of her hand into her eye, blinking fast. “I show up every day because I know you’ll be here soon. It’s the only thing keeping me steady.”

You exhaled softly on the other end of the line.

“I’m coming. You know that.”

“I know.”

“But you need to live this part too, babe. Not just wait for me to catch up.”

Paige looked down at the rug. Her socked toe circled the same loop in the fabric she always traced when she was anxious.

“I’m trying,” she whispered.

“I know you are,” you said, gentle and true.

She listened to your breathing—steady, familiar, comforting like a lullaby only she ever got to hear.

“I got your letter,” you said after a pause.

Her breath caught. “You did?”

“It was in my mailbox when I got home today. I read it twice. I cried.”

“Yeah?” Her throat tightened. “I wasn’t sure if I should send it.”

“I’m glad you did.” You paused. “The part where you said you wake up sometimes expecting me to be next to you… that broke me.”

“It breaks me too,” she admitted.

You went quiet, and for a second she thought maybe the call had dropped. But then you spoke, voice lower than before.

“I still sleep on my side of the bed.”

Paige’s eyes burned. “Me too.”

More silence. Not awkward—just full. Weighted. Safe.

“I’ve been drafting lesson plans on weekends,” you said eventually. “Every time I write one, I imagine grading papers at your kitchen table. Coffee beside me. You half-asleep, stealing bites of my breakfast.”

“I want that so bad,” Paige whispered. “Just… life with you.”

“You’ll have it.”

“I’m scared something’s gonna change before then.”

You were quiet. “Do you feel me changing?”

“No,” she answered immediately. “No. I feel you more than ever.”

“Then trust that.”

She let her head fall back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut. “I trust you.”

“Good,” you whispered. “Because I’m not going anywhere. Even if it feels like I’m not close yet—I am. I’m getting closer every single day.”

Paige exhaled shakily. “I need you.”

“You have me.”

It was the kind of sentence Paige wanted to wrap herself in. Warm. Safe. Whole.

“I love you,” she said.

“I love you more,” you replied. “Thirty-nine days.”

She smiled.

Thirty-nine days.

She could wait a little longer.

Paige had never looked at a calendar so obsessively in her life.

Thirteen days.

She’d circled the date in three different colors now. Red, then black, then silver Sharpie because it felt permanent. Final. Like a promise.

Thirteen days until you arrived in Dallas. Thirteen days until she wouldn’t have to fall asleep hugging a pillow that didn’t breathe. Until she wouldn’t have to whisper “I love you” to a lock screen photo anymore.

Her teammates noticed.

“You good, Bueckers?” Arike asked at practice after she botched a layup drill for the third time.

“Yeah. Just… distracted.”

DiJonai raised a brow. “Your girl coming soon?”

Paige glanced down at the court, tried to hide her smile. “Thirteen days.”

Arike let out a low whistle. “We’re about to meet the mysterious teacher girlfriend.”

“She’s real?” Maddy Siegrist joked from the sideline. “I thought y’all made her up for the plot.”

“Shut up,” Paige muttered, but she was grinning.

That night, her phone buzzed with a picture.

You. In the mirror. Hair still damp from a shower, her oversized Wings hoodie falling off one shoulder. The caption underneath said, “Borrowed this. Sorry, not sorry.”

Paige melted into her mattress.

“That’s the only crime I fully endorse.”

Then she FaceTimed you.

You answered almost immediately, face bright despite the bags under your eyes. “Hey, superstar.”

“Hey, thief.”

You smiled. “Caught me.”

“You look good in that.”

“I better. You left it behind for a reason.”

“I did,” Paige said softly. “So you’d have something to hold until I could do it myself again.”

Your face shifted, tenderness blooming at the edges of your eyes. “Two weeks.”

“Twelve days.”

You sighed, smiling into the phone like she’d pressed a kiss to your cheek through the screen. “I packed up my classroom today. Left a note on the desk for the next TA.”

Paige nodded. “It’s real now, huh?”

“It’s always been real,” you said. “But now it’s here. It’s close.”

Paige ran a hand through her hair, breath shaky. “I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“That something will go wrong. That the plane will get canceled. Or your offer will fall through. Or you’ll—”

“I’m coming,” you interrupted, firm, grounding her. “There’s no ‘what if.’ I’m coming. Eleven days and twenty hours. I counted.”

Paige stared at you for a long second.

“Come sleep on the call,” she said quietly.

You blinked. “You want me to fall asleep with you on the phone?”

“I want to hear you breathe,” she whispered. “I want to pretend the distance isn’t real for one night.”

You didn’t hesitate. “Okay.”

She propped her phone up on the pillow beside her. You did the same. It wasn’t perfect—fuzzy audio, a time delay—but it was yours. You talked about nothing for a while. What you made for dinner (pasta), the paper you were editing (some kid plagiarized a poem about dogs), your grocery list for when you moved in (cereal, way too much oat milk, frozen dumplings).

And then it got quiet.

Your voice came soft in the dark, “Ten days tomorrow.”

“I know,” Paige murmured. “It’s starting to feel real.”

“It is real.”

She reached for the screen, like touching glass could bridge miles. “I can’t wait to kiss you again.”

You let out a breath. “Don’t make me cry this late.”

“I just miss you,” Paige said, voice cracking.

“I know, baby. I miss you too.”

Seven days before you arrive, a package showed up at her door with your name scribbled across the top.

Inside was a box of school supplies—pens, Post-its, paper clips—and a hand-written note.

“Figured I should bring some of me to you before I physically can. Can’t wait to leave these all over your kitchen table. Love you always, Your favorite teacher.”

She cried for fifteen minutes after opening it

Four days before, she sat at a team dinner scrolling through your texts, tuning out everything else.

Her phone buzzed.

“T-minus 96 hours. Pack extra chapstick. You’re not escaping all the kisses I owe you.”

She nearly choked on her lemonade.

She didn’t sleep.

She lay on the couch in your sweatshirt, staring at the ceiling, heart galloping in her chest like she was waiting for Christmas morning.

The phone rang at 1:08 AM.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked.

��Nope.”

“Me neither.”

You were quiet together for a while. Then Paige whispered, “Where are you?”

You laughed. “Still in Connecticut. Bags packed. Suitcase by the door. I keep checking my flight time every ten minutes.”

“Me too,” she said. “I keep opening the guest closet to make sure I left you enough space.”

“You didn’t.”

“Guess we’ll be sharing hangers then.” A pause. “Next time I call you,” you said, “it won’t be through a screen.”

Paige closed her eyes. “I’m gonna hold you so tight.”

“I’m gonna let you.”

Two days before.

The sun in Dallas was blinding. Unreasonably bright for a city that had no idea her world was about to tilt.

Paige had just gotten home from practice, keys still in hand, backpack sliding off her shoulder when she grabbed her phone.

One new message from you.

“On the way to my last class now—remind me to tell you about the 8th grader who tried to give me a friendship bracelet today. He said it was for luck on my big move .”

She smiled. She sat on the arm of the couch and typed fast.

“That’s the cutest thing ever.”

Delivered.

No read receipt. That was fine. You were still in class.

An hour passed.

She sent another.

“Dinner’s on me when you land. I bought dumplings. Don’t fight me.”

No response.

She waited.

She called around 9 p.m.

Once. Twice.

Three rings, voicemail.

She left a message.

“Hey, you okay? I know you’ve probably got a million things going on—boxes, checklists, last-minute goodbyes—but… just call me when you get a second, okay? I just want to hear your voice.”

She kept her phone next to her pillow that night, volume up, screen brightness high.

Nothing.

One day before.

The silence clung to her.

She woke with a headache, heart already racing, the cold side of the bed feeling like an accusation.

Still nothing from you.

Paige rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling.

“This is fine,” she whispered to herself. “You’re just busy. You’re probably with your family. Maybe your phone died.”

She called again.

Straight to voicemail.

She texted.

“I’m starting to worry. Just… send me a thumbs up or anything. Please.”

Nothing.

She paced the apartment, uneaten toast still on her plate, coffee gone cold in her mug.

That night, she sat on the kitchen floor in front of the fridge, phone in her lap, eyes red.

“Where are you?” “Baby, please.” “Just tell me you're okay.” “I don’t care if you’re not getting on the plane. I just need to know you're okay.”

She didn’t sleep.

Just stared at the wall.

The day of.

She cleaned the apartment top to bottom.

She couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t cry again.

You were supposed to land at 4:27 p.m.

She stared at the time on her screen—4:00… 4:15… 4:27… 4:40.

No call. No knock at the door. No text.

She scrolled to the airport’s arrival board online. Typed your flight number. Watched it switch from Scheduled to Landed.

Still nothing.

She picked up her phone again. Shaking fingers. Dialed.

Voicemail.

She left one anyway, voice cracking.

“Please don’t do this to me. Please. Just… I need you. I need to know if you’re—if you’re safe. If you changed your mind, I’ll understand. I swear, I’ll understand. Just don’t let it end like this. Not in silence.”

She hung up.

Then slumped down against the front door and broke.

Her body folded over itself. Sobs racked through her like her heart had forgotten how to beat without yours to match it. She stayed there, curled up, whispering your name like a prayer.

She didn’t turn the lights on.

She sat in the dark with your hoodie balled up in her arms and her phone still in her hand.

Her last text read, “I’ll wait by the door.”

But she never heard the knock.

Paige sat on the apartment floor again, back pressed against the kitchen cabinets. The tile was cold beneath her legs. She hadn’t eaten more than toast in 36 hours.

The dumplings were still in the freezer. She hadn’t touched them. Couldn’t.

She refreshed her texts.

Still no read receipts. Still no dots. Still no “Delivered” beneath her messages.

She called again.

Straight to voicemail.

She whispered into the silence like maybe this time the void would answer her.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” she said. “I don’t know if you’re ghosting me or if you’re gone. Please—please—just give me something. Let me hate you. Let me worry. Just don’t let me do both.”

She hung up. Laid down. Didn’t move.

She went to practice. No one said anything until the third missed shot in a row.

“Yo,” Arike called out. “You good, Paige?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just wiped sweat from her brow and threw the ball at the nearest rack.

“Fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I said I’m fine,” Paige snapped, sharper than she meant to. Her voice echoed off the gym walls like a slap.

Her teammates exchanged looks.

“Alright,” Nai said as they walked out of the locker room. “Spill. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Try again.”

Paige exhaled, shoulders slumped. “She was supposed to be here. Three days ago.”

Nai paused. “Wait—your girl? She didn’t come?”

“No call. No text. No voicemail. Nothing.”

Nai’s face softened. “Shit, Paige…”

“I don’t even know if she’s alive.”

“Have you… talked to anyone? Like, her friends, her mom—?”

“She’s private about that. Her family… it’s complicated.”

Nai hesitated. “Did she ever give any signs that she wouldn’t come?”

“No.” Paige blinked hard. “She was excited. We planned everything down to the shelf space. She sent me a letter. She told me she was counting hours. And now it’s just—gone.”

Nai put a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll figure it out.”

Paige flinched. “What if there’s nothing to figure out?”

Nai didn’t answer that.

The team had an off day.

Paige didn’t leave bed.

She watched your old videos on her phone—the ones you sent her when you used to stay up late decorating your classroom or making grilled cheese while dancing around your kitchen.

She watched them on loop until her phone died.

And then she just laid there, eyes burning.

Maddy brought takeout over.

“You need to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I didn’t ask.”

They sat in silence on the couch. Paige pushed rice around her plate without lifting the fork once.

Maddy glanced at her. “Is there any chance she—like, she couldn’t call?”

Paige’s voice cracked. “I don’t know. I’ve thought of everything. Every possibility. Car accident. No service. Anxiety. Cold feet. But it’s been over a week.”

“Have you heard anything?”

Paige shook her head. “Her phone goes straight to voicemail. Her email bounced. Her socials are dark. It’s like she fell off the planet.”

“Bueckers…”

“I keep checking the door,” Paige whispered. “I know she’s not coming, but I can’t help it. I still wake up thinking I’ll hear her keys.”

Maddy’s voice went soft. “You really loved her, huh?”

Paige nodded, eyes shining. “Still do.”

The media started noticing.

Her stats dropped. Her answers got shorter. Smiles didn’t reach her eyes.

In a post-practice interview, someone asked, “Everything okay off the court?”

She blinked, stunned into stillness.

Then nodded once.

But when she got back to the locker room, she cried into her jersey until her shoulders shook and her breath hitched and she didn’t know how to stop.

She texted you again.

“It’s been almost two weeks. Please. I’m not mad. I just need to know if you’re okay. I won’t ask anything else. Just… say something. Anything.”

She stared at the screen for hours.

Nothing.

She scrolled through every old message. Every photo. Every “I love you more.” Every kiss emoji. Every half-finished voice memo you never sent but saved for later.

She played one on loop.

“God, I can’t wait to be there. To be home. With you.”

And then, when her hands couldn’t stop shaking, she recorded one of her own. She didn’t know if it would ever be heard. But she sent it anyway.

“Hey. It’s Paige. I guess this is… my last message. I don’t know if you’re out there, or if you changed your mind, or if something happened and you’re too scared to tell me. But I still love you. And I always will. No matter what.”

She hit send.

And this time, she didn’t wait for the three dots to appear.

There was a new voicemail on Paige’s phone.

Not from you.

Just a spam number, something about her car warranty.

She deleted it without listening.

Your name—your entire thread—was now buried in her messages. She hadn’t opened it in four days. Not because she didn’t care. Because she couldn’t.

Every time she saw it, her stomach clenched. Not from love. From loss.

You had disappeared 25 days ago.

She used to count the days with hope. Now it just felt like proof that people vanish. Even the ones who swore they’d never leave.

Her texts to you had slowed. At first they’d been frantic—ten a day, calls at every hour. Then five a day. Then one. Then every few days.

Now? Nothing in almost a week.

She didn’t even cry anymore.

She just… lived.

Empty. Quiet. Going through the motions.

Practice was quiet. No jokes. No trash talk. Just the dull thud of the ball against hardwood and the squeak of sneakers she barely registered anymore.

Her shooting percentage had dropped 8%.

The coaching staff hadn’t said anything yet, but she could feel it. The stares. The sighs. The weight of eyes tracking her when they thought she wasn’t looking.

After practice, she sat on the locker room bench for ten minutes too long, staring at the wall like it might say something. Like you used to.

She pulled out her phone.

No new messages. No calls.

She scrolled to your contact anyway. Just to see it. Just to remind herself that once, there was a world where your name lit up her screen like sunlight.

She closed the app.

Went home.

Didn’t even shower.

Her phone rang.

She was mid-laundry, a damp towel slung over one arm, the apartment humid from the dryer running too long.

She didn’t check it immediately. Assumed it was Nai or maybe Coach.

It rang again.

She glanced over.

Paused.

Your name.

Your contact photo—the one she took on a lazy spring day, you in her hoodie, your cheeks pink from sun and laughter.

She froze. The call kept ringing. Her thumb hovered. She didn’t move. She just watched it ring. Watched it buzz against the counter like it hadn’t been silent for a month.

Then she let it stop. Didn’t touch it. Didn’t breathe. The screen went dark. She stood still for a long time. It rang again. Same name. Same photo. Same ringtone she hadn’t changed since the day you set it for yourself.

But this time, something cracked in her chest—not a sob, not panic. Just anger. Cold, bitter, exhausted anger.

You didn’t get to vanish for four weeks and come back like nothing happened. You didn’t get to disappear and then dial her number like it was safe to do so. You didn’t get to decide when she hurt. She watched it ring again. Didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

She whispered into the silence, voice flat, “You don’t get to do this to me.”

Then the call ended. And the phone was quiet again. And she sat down on the kitchen floor like she had the first night you didn’t show up. But this time, she didn’t cry. This time, she just turned the phone over, face down.

Let the silence reclaim the room.

The lights at Target Center always made Paige feel electric.

It was different being back here—being home. But nothing about tonight felt comforting.

She was sharp in warmups. Crisp. Clean. Cold. Her jumper was falling like clockwork. Her footwork flawless. Her body obeyed in a way her heart hadn’t for weeks.

She was pissed.

And she was going to take it out on the court.

Fans were already filling in as she paced the baseline, headphones slung around her neck, eyes unfocused as she dribbled through sets.

And then—she saw her.

Your mom.

Sitting alone. Courtside. Seat 3A. The one you said was your favorite seat cause you could watch her without getting blocked by other people.

She was smaller than Paige remembered. Or maybe just older. Her coat was folded neatly in her lap, hands clutching it like it could keep her together.

Paige’s heart stuttered.

She looked away.

Kept warming up.

Refused to let herself feel anything.

Not now. Not after four weeks of unanswered calls. Not after those two rings she let pass without lifting a finger.

She buried the sight of her behind a wall of rage. Let her heartbeat sync with the squeak of shoes, the thud of the ball, the echo of her name being announced with fire in the intro video.

And when the game started?

She was unreal.

Floaters. Crossovers. Mid-range pull-ups that never touched the rim.

By halftime, she had 18 points and 5 assists.

By the end of the third quarter, 27 points, 3 steals, and the crowd was roaring every time she touched the ball.

She didn’t crack. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

Not until the final buzzer sounded.

Not until she saw your mom again.

Still there. Still alone.

Waiting.

She pulled her warmup jacket on and started walking toward the tunnel, jaw tight, jaw locked.

“Paige.” She didn’t stop. “Paige, please.”

No.

No.

She kept walking. One foot in front of the other.

“She didn’t break her promise to you.”

That made her pause.

Your mom’s voice cracked through the noise like a crack in glass.

“She didn’t leave you.”

Paige’s breath caught.

She turned—slow, deliberate.

Your mom was standing now, gripping the railing, eyes already shining with tears.

“She was coming to you,” she whispered. “She never stopped loving you.”

“What did you just say?” Paige’s voice was a whisper.

The older woman’s lips trembled. “Can we… Can we talk somewhere else?”

Paige didn’t respond.

Just reached for her, fingers numb, and pulled her through the tunnel, past a stunned PR intern, down the hallway.

Into the locker room.

Empty.

Silent.

She shut the door behind them. Locked it.

Turned around.

“Say it again,” she said. Not a request. A plea.

Your mother stared at her, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. Her voice was barely there.

“She was on her way to Dallas,” she said. “She left two days early. Wanted to surprise you.”

Paige didn’t move.

“She was so excited. She couldn’t stop smiling. Said she wanted to be there when you got home from practice, said she couldn’t wait another day. She didn’t even tell me. I found the note on the kitchen table.”

Paige’s knees buckled.

She caught herself on the edge of a bench. “No,” she whispered.

“She got in the car that morning. Early. She never made it to the airport.”

Her heart stopped.

“She was hit by a semi on I-95. Fog was thick. The driver didn’t see her. She died on impact.”

Paige didn’t breathe. Couldn’t.

Your mother’s eyes filled again. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t know—how to reach you. I didn’t have your number, not anymore. I tried social media, but…”

“You didn’t call the team?” Paige’s voice was raw.

“I tried, but they didn’t believe me.”

Paige’s hands were shaking.

Your mother took a slow step forward. “She had gifts in the car. Her famous dumplings. Your favorite lotion. And a sweatshirt she swore would make you cry. She had this whole plan. She wanted to sneak in and wait on your couch.”

Paige let out a broken laugh. “That sounds like her.”

“She loved you so much.”

“I know,” Paige whispered, the first tear falling. “I know.”

And then she couldn’t stop them.

They came all at once—weeks of confusion, silence, fury, grief—crashing over her like a wave she never saw coming.

She sobbed into her hands, whole body trembling.

“She said she was coming,” Paige cried. “I waited. I waited so long.”

Your mother stepped forward, slowly, and sat beside her. She didn’t speak. Just reached for Paige’s hand.

It was cold. Small. Familiar.

“She tried,” she said.

That was all.

And it was everything.

That night, Paige didn’t go out with the team. Didn’t talk to media. Didn’t even turn on the lights when she got back to her hotel room.

She laid in bed, clutching her phone.

Opened your last message—the one with the bracelet story.

She read it over and over until her eyes blurred.

Then she opened her voicemails. The one you never got to hear.

She hit play.

And for the first time, she let herself believe you heard it after all.

The rest of the Wings flew back to Dallas the next morning.

Paige didn’t.

She sent a text to her coach. “I need a few more days. I’ll explain when I can.” She didn’t get a reply, just three dots. “Take your time. We’ve got you.”

Your mother offered her the guest room without hesitation.

But Paige couldn’t sleep.

She sat in your driveway for almost half an hour before walking inside, her duffel bag untouched in the trunk. The porch creaked the same way it had in high school. The air smelled like cinnamon and old books. The light in the hallway still flickered if you walked too fast.

The house felt like it had been paused mid-laugh.

Your mother gave her a quiet smile. “You can go up if you want.”

Paige hesitated at the stairs.

“I haven’t changed a thing,” she added.

Paige nodded.

And climbed.

Each step was an echo.

Your bedroom door was half-closed.

She pushed it open slowly, like the room might wake up.

It looked exactly the same.

The posters. The scuffed desk. The stack of books under your windowsill. The UConn flag pinned above your bed from the day you got your acceptance letter.

It felt like walking into a snow globe—perfectly preserved, terrifyingly still.

Her legs moved without permission. She stood in the center of the room, eyes darting from corner to corner.

There was the dent in the wall where you’d knocked your chair back too far trying to recreate a TikTok dance.

There was the blanket she gave you senior year—navy blue, your name and hers stitched into the corner like some inside joke you never explained to anyone else.

There was your old lanyard, still hanging from the doorknob.

And then her eyes landed on it.

The photo frame on your nightstand.

It was them.

Her and you.

From sophomore year.

Both in hoodies, half-asleep on your porch swing. She was leaning into you, your arm around her, eyes closed. You were laughing—head tilted, light spilling from you like a secret the world didn’t deserve.

She staggered forward.

Knees hit the side of the bed.

She picked up the frame with trembling hands. Traced your face with her thumb. Pressed it to her chest like it was the only part of you left.

That’s when it broke.

All of it.

The strength. The waiting. The hope. The disbelief.

She collapsed onto your bed in sobs that felt like thunder.

Big, gasping, shoulder-racking sobs.

“Why,” she cried into your pillow, voice muffled, raw. “Why didn’t I pick you up myself? Why didn’t I call more? Send someone? Why wasn’t I there?”

The pillow soaked beneath her. Your scent still faint.

She curled into it like it could answer her.

“God, you were right there. You were coming to me—early. And I didn’t—I didn’t even get to see you.”

The photo dropped from her hand and landed face-up beside her.

Her tears made the glass shimmer.

She pressed her cheek to it.

“Come back,” she whispered. “Please, baby. I don’t know how to live without you.”

She stayed there for what felt like hours.

Maybe it was.

No one came to check. Your mother didn’t knock. She must’ve known—must’ve felt it.

Paige eventually sat up, wiped her eyes on your sweatshirt still folded at the foot of your bed.

Her voice was wrecked when she finally whispered, “I never stopped waiting for you.”

And maybe she never would.

The cemetery was quiet.

The kind of quiet that made you feel like time had paused just long enough for the earth to breathe.

It was a cool, overcast morning—no sun, no shadows. Just that still, aching gray that matched the way Paige’s heart had felt since the moment she heard the words "she was on her way to surprise you."

Your mother had told her where to go.

Plot 47. Near the far oak. The one that turns red the first in fall.

The walk from the parking lot was long.

Paige carried a bouquet in one hand—sunflowers and dahlias, wrapped in twine. You always said they looked like fireworks made out of joy. She never forgot that.

Her other hand stayed tucked in her jacket pocket, fingers curled tight like she might fall apart if she let them open.

When she reached your grave, she just stood.

Still.

Frozen.

Your name was etched in marble now. Sharp, clean lettering. Birth year. Dash. End year.

Too soon. So unfairly soon.

Beneath it, a line she recognized.

She loved loudly. She laughed often. She never said goodbye without meaning it.

Paige bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.

She knelt slowly. Placed the flowers at the base. Adjusted them twice, even though they were already perfect.

And then she sat.

Cross-legged on the grass.

Facing you.

“I thought I’d have more time,” she said quietly.

The breeze stirred the petals.

“I thought you’d walk into my apartment two days early and I’d laugh and tell you you were crazy for not telling me. I thought we’d fight about cabinet space. I thought I’d kiss you every night for the rest of my life.”

She swallowed hard.

“But instead… I’m sitting here. And this is the first time I’ve seen your name in stone.”

A pause.

“I was angry. Your mom called me after a month of silence and I was angry. I didn’t know you were on your way to me. I didn’t know you never made it.”

She looked down, hands clenched in her lap.

“I thought you left me.”

Her breath trembled.

“I didn’t know you were trying to come home.”

She looked up at the sky.

“I would’ve waited at the airport all day if I had known. I would’ve driven to Minnesota and brought you myself. I would’ve done anything, anything, to see you one more time.”

Her jaw tensed. Eyes shined with fresh tears.

“I still talk to you. Every night. I sleep in your hoodie. I make coffee and pour two mugs like an idiot.”

She wiped her face with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

“The team doesn’t ask anymore. I think they’re scared of breaking me. But I’ve already been broken.”

She took a breath.

“But I’m still here.”

The wind picked up. Rustled the oak leaves above.

“I went back to your bedroom,” Paige said. “It looked exactly the same. Like you were just at school and would be home by dinner.”

She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a small laminated photo—the same one that had sat on your nightstand. The one of the two of you from sophomore year. She laid it gently between the flowers and the stone.

“I wanted to leave this with you,” she said. “Because even if I have to move forward, I’m not leaving you. You’re still the best part of me.”

A gust of wind blew through the grass. Paige looked down.

Her voice dropped, barely audible.

“I love you,” she whispered. “And I always will.”

She sat there for a long time.

Telling you about her next game. About the dumplings she finally cooked. About the song that made her think of you last week and how she cried in the car on the way to practice.

She stayed until the sun started peeking out again. Until the clouds began to thin and the shadows returned.

Then she stood. Pressed two fingers to her lips. Then to your name.

And walked away.

The flowers swayed in the breeze behind her.

The picture stayed.

You stayed.

The cheers were deafening.

It was the second round of the playoffs. Dallas had clawed their way in, and now they were clawing their way forward. The whole arena stood as Paige walked toward center court, Rookie of the Year graphic blazing behind her.

Bright lights. Brighter smile.

But behind that smile, a tremor.

She hadn’t slept much the night before. Not because of nerves. But because the one person she wanted to share this with wasn’t there.

Would never be there again.

She stepped forward, hands steady despite the storm inside her. Her name echoed from the speakers. “2025 WNBA Rookie of the Year… Paige Bueckers!”

Applause.

Spotlights.

Cameras flashing.

A league rep handed her the trophy—sleek, metallic, engraved. Her fingers curled around it automatically. Like she was on autopilot.

She turned to the mic.

The crowd quieted.

Her voice started strong.

“Um… wow. This means the world. First of all, thank you to the league, my teammates, my coaches. The Dallas Wings believed in me the second they drafted me, and I hope I’ve made them proud.”

More cheers.

She smiled faintly.

“I want to thank my family. My friends. The fans. And my hometown—Hopkins, I love you.”

More applause.

Then a pause.

She glanced down at the trophy in her hand. Her fingers tightened.

Her voice softened.

“But… there’s someone else I need to thank.”

The arena stilled.

Paige’s throat bobbed.

“She… she should’ve been here. And she almost was.”

The crowd hushed.

Paige blinked up at the rafters like she was asking for strength from a sky that still felt too far away.

“She was the first person who told me I was going to make it here. She saw this moment before I did. She believed in me when I was tired. She reminded me why I loved this game when I couldn’t feel it.”

She looked directly into the camera.

“Thank you for loving me. For believing in me. For being the kindest, brightest part of my life. This award… I share it with you. I dedicate it to you.”

A single tear slid down her cheek.

“You didn’t make it to the game. But you made me. Every piece of me. So I carry you every time I step on this court.”

The crowd began clapping—slow, quiet. Then stronger. Louder.

Rising like a wave.

Paige stepped back from the mic.

She raised the trophy once. Small, solemn.

And whispered, not into the microphone, but just to the air.

“I hope you’re proud of me.”

The cemetery was quiet again.

Autumn had arrived. The oak tree beside your grave had started to turn—flaming reds and soft oranges bleeding down through the branches like a slow goodbye.

Paige walked the familiar path in silence.

No cameras. No team. No PR handlers. No trophy case.

Just her.

And the small velvet-lined box tucked under her arm.

She wore your hoodie. It still smelled faintly like your shampoo. It was a little too worn now, the cuffs fraying. But it was hers. And it had been yours. And that made it holy.

When she reached your grave, she knelt.

The headstone hadn’t changed. Still your name. Still that cruel little dash between two years that weren’t enough. Still that line.

She never said goodbye without meaning it.

Paige set the box down beside the sunflowers and dahlias she’d brought. The same flowers she always did.

She didn’t open the box right away.

Just stared at your name. Let the wind brush over her face. Let the silence wrap around her like a question with no answer.

“I said I’d bring it to you,” she whispered eventually.

Her fingers found the edges of the velvet. She lifted the lid.

Inside was her Rookie of the Year trophy—well, a replica. The league had sent a second version when they needed to display the original. She didn’t correct them. She was glad for it.

Because this one was for you.

She picked it up gently. Placed it against the stone.

“This was yours before it was mine,” she said. “You trained me in the off-seasons. You studied game tape with me. You kept me grounded when I got caught in my own head.”

She exhaled. It sounded like surrender.

“I know I said the words in my speech. But I needed to say them here.”

A leaf drifted down between them.

She smiled faintly.

“I miss you every day. I talk to you before every game. I look for your face in every crowd. I still text you sometimes. Even though I know the only place I can send anything now… is here.”

She touched the trophy. Then the top edge of your headstone.

“I hope wherever you are, you’re still loud. Still laughing. Still correcting my form from the sidelines and making fun of how dramatic I get during interviews.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away.

“I won, baby,” she whispered. “And it should’ve been us holding this together.”

Her voice dropped to something barely audible.

“But I’m still holding it for both of us.”

She leaned forward. Pressed a kiss to the marble.

And then sat beside your grave. Not in mourning.

But in memory.

She stayed until the sky turned pink behind the trees.

Then stood.

One last look at the trophy. At the stone. At the name she loved more than her own.

“I’ll be back,” she said. “That’s a promise.”

And when she walked away, the wind rustled the leaves—gentle, soft, as if the trees themselves whispered back.

I know.

[uncuredturkeybacon]

correct.

I wanted to ask u… would u be willing to write six months but with a happy ending? Bc I’m not doing okey🤪🤪🤪🤪

hmmm uh nope

[uncuredturkeybacon]

the verizon ad had me bawling too so i guess i was inspired by them

𝚜𝚒𝚡 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚜 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which love never ends

The sun filtered in through the half-closed blinds of Paige’s dorm room, casting soft strips of light across the hardwood floor. The room was half-packed—open boxes lined the bed, shoes spilling over the edge, books stacked in leaning towers by the door. A half-empty closet loomed in the corner like a reminder of all the time that had passed and how little of it was left.

You stood near her desk, folding up a Wings hoodie that had been sent in the mail last week, her name stitched in bold on the sleeve.

“She really said number one pick,” you teased gently, holding it up like a trophy.

Paige, sitting cross-legged on her bed, looked up at you and grinned. “She really did. Can you believe that?”

“No,” you said, smile twitching at the corner of your mouth. “But I’m proud of her anyway.”

She tilted her head, her smile dimming into something quieter, more thoughtful. “I’m scared.”

You didn’t answer right away. You folded the hoodie neatly and placed it in the open suitcase at the edge of her bed, smoothing it down like it was fragile.

“I know,” you said softly.

“It’s not the game,” she clarified, glancing at you like she needed you to understand. “I’m not scared about basketball. I’m scared of going without you.”

You walked over and sat beside her, one foot tucked under your knee, your shoulder brushing hers.

“I’ll be there,” you said, firm, not flinching.

Paige leaned her head against your shoulder. “Six months feels like a long time.”

“It’s really not.”

“It feels like it.”

You rested your hand on her thigh, fingers curling just slightly into the fabric of her sweats. She was wearing your high school tee—old and oversized, faded from too many washes. You had given it to her years ago when she’d stolen it after a sleepover and never gave it back. You never asked her to.

“You have a whole season to get through,” you said gently. “I have students to teach and finals to grade and middle schoolers to keep from launching glue sticks at each other. It’ll go fast.”

Paige let out a small breath of laughter. “You really want to be a teacher, huh?”

“I already am. I’m a TA now, remember?” you bumped your shoulder against hers. “And I’ve already got my offer letter. Same school district my mom used to work in. Orientation’s the week after graduation.”

She turned toward you, eyes soft and serious. “That’s incredible.”

“You’re incredible,” you said before you could stop yourself.

Paige blinked, looking down like she needed to hide how fast she blushed. She always got like that when you said things too directly. Too honestly.

She didn’t say anything for a moment.

Then, her voice barely above a whisper, “Are you really gonna come to Dallas?”

You turned toward her fully, one leg sliding off the bed to ground yourself. “Yes.”

“You promise?”

You reached for her hand, threading your fingers together. “I promise.”

Her bottom lip quivered just slightly, and she bit down on it like she could swallow the emotion before it broke the surface.

“You’re not just saying that to make it easier.”

“No, Paige. I mean it.” You squeezed her hand. “Six months from now, I’ll be there. I’ll be in your apartment, probably fighting you for closet space and making you pasta after away games.”

She smiled, even as her eyes welled with tears. “You can’t cook.”

“I’m learning. I made that chicken stir fry last week.”

“That was microwaved chicken stir fry.”

“Still counts.”

She laughed through her tears, leaning in to press her forehead to yours. “God, I love you.”

You closed your eyes. “I love you too.”

There were things you didn’t say—like how terrified you were of her leaving, how the thought of waking up alone in your own dorm made your chest ache. How hard it would be to fall asleep without her cold feet pressing against your calves or her late-night whispered rants about practice drills.

But you also didn’t say how proud you were watching her step into this next chapter. You didn’t need to.

Instead, you kissed her—slow, lingering, full of everything you couldn’t fit into words. When you pulled away, her eyes stayed closed like she was memorizing the shape of your mouth.

“You’ll call?” she whispered.

“Every night,” you said. “Even if it’s just to hear you breathe.”

“That’s weird,” she teased.

“That’s love.”

She leaned into your chest, burying her face in your neck, and you held her. You didn’t move for a long time.

When she left for the airport the next morning, her fingers gripped yours until the last possible moment. You kissed her like you were writing a promise into her mouth. Six months, you told her again. You’ll be there in six months.

And as she stepped through the terminal gate, looking back at you with tears in her eyes and her Wings hoodie pulled tight around her, you smiled through your own heartbreak.

Because you meant it.

And because some promises don’t need reminders.

They just need time.

Dallas felt bigger than it looked on a map.

Everything about it—traffic, heat, even the sky—seemed stretched, like someone had pulled the edges of a familiar world just far enough to make it unrecognizable.

Paige sat alone on the living room floor of her new apartment, a half-unpacked box of plates beside her and a phone balanced on her knee. Her wallpaper was still a photo of you— blurry, mid-laugh, sitting cross-legged in the grass at a park. It was from a late spring picnic, right before you both had to pretend you weren’t about to say goodbye.

She stared at the screen like it might blink and bring you back.

You answered after the third ring, your voice a little breathless. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Paige whispered. It came out softer than she meant. Her chest ached.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” you asked.

“No. Just… sitting.”

“On the floor?”

“Yeah. I don’t know where my couch screws went. I might be living a cushion life for a while.”

You laughed—real, warm, familiar. Paige closed her eyes and let it coat the inside of her ribs.

“That’s kind of poetic,” you said. “Starting your WNBA career on the floor of an empty apartment.”

“Feels more pathetic than poetic.”

“No. I like it. It’s humble.”

Paige exhaled, and her voice cracked just slightly. “I miss you.”

The line was quiet for a second. Then you spoke, your voice gentler. “I miss you too.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. “I keep forgetting you’re not ten minutes away. Like today, I had a good practice, and my first thought was ‘I’m gonna stop by your place and tell you everything.’ And then I remembered.”

“I know,” you said. “I do that too.”

“I drove past a coffee shop the other day and almost walked in just to see if you’d be there. Even though you’ve never even been to Texas.”

You smiled, she could hear it. “You’re thinking of the one near Gampel, huh?”

“Yeah.” She swallowed. “The one where you studied and I’d show up pretending I needed help with nutrition class.”

“You did need help.”

“Whatever. It worked.”

She leaned her head back against the wall and looked around at the blank space surrounding her. The moving truck had come and gone. The furniture was in, but the soul of the apartment hadn’t arrived yet.

It was still missing you.

“How’s school?” she asked.

“Chaotic,” you replied. “One of the kids asked me today if people in the ‘old times’ had internet. I said, ‘Define old.’ He said, ‘Like 2005.’”

Paige laughed, shaking her head. “Rude.”

“I’m ancient now,” you said. “Twenty-two and deteriorating.”

“You better still have the strength to carry all your stuff up three flights when you get here.”

“Oh, I do. I’m saving it all up for the move.”

Her smile faltered. “You’re still coming, right?”

You went quiet again. Not hesitant—just letting it settle, weighty and certain.

“Of course I am.”

Paige closed her eyes. “Promise?”

“I already did.”

“I just…” Her voice trailed. “It’s hard. Not hearing your keys in the door. Not getting to see your face at the end of the day. I love my team, I really do—but they’re not you.”

“I’m not replacing anyone,” you said. “Just adding to it.”

She let that sit with her. “I want you here so bad it hurts sometimes.”

“I know,” you whispered. “Me too.”

Her voice shook. “I don’t want us to change.”

“We won’t.”

“But long distance changes people.”

“Maybe,” you admitted. “But not us. It might make things harder. But not worse.”

She nodded, even though you couldn’t see it. “I just feel like I’m floating through all this without you. The practices, the press, the apartment—it all feels… half real.”

“Paige,” you said, gentle, firm. “I am coming. I’m not drifting away from you. I’m just walking the longer path to the same place.”

She let the silence wrap around her.

“Say something else,” she said softly. “Just talk to me.”

You paused. “Okay… I hung up pictures in my room. There’s one of us from last spring. You’ve got your mouth full of apple slices and you’re giving me the middle finger because I said you looked like a squirrel.”

She laughed. “I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

Paige smiled, small but genuine. She pictured it. You, in your tiny off-campus apartment. Talking about her like she was still part of your day. She was. You were hers, too.

“I love you,” Paige said.

“I love you more,” you answered.

The days ticked by slower than she liked.

Some nights, she fell asleep with the phone still in her hand, your voice still echoing in her ears from a half-finished conversation. Other nights, she'd stay up scrolling through old pictures, rereading texts, listening to voicemails.

Her teammates teased her about being a hopeless romantic. About how she smiled every time your name came up. About how she always checked her phone like she was waiting for someone to come home.

And she was.

Because in six months—five, now—you would.

And when that day came, Paige knew, no amount of missed calls or empty beds would matter. Because you’d be there. You’d walk through the door with a duffel bag and a tired smile, and she'd finally feel whole again.

But until then… she’d wait.

With her phone in her hand. And your promise in her heart.

The calendar on Paige’s fridge had six weeks circled in red.

It was stupid, maybe, using a physical calendar like some suburban mom—but it grounded her. It gave shape to time that otherwise felt endless. Each “X” she scribbled through a square made the space between now and your arrival just a little smaller.

But it didn’t make the missing hurt any less.

Paige sat curled on the apartment couch, legs tucked under her, bowl of cereal in one hand, phone pressed to her cheek with the other. Her hair was still damp from practice. Her whole body ached—but nothing ached more than the space beside her on the couch.

“I got a voicemail from one of my students today,” your voice said through the speaker. “He said, ‘Miss Y/L/N, I hope you feel better because math was boring without you.’ And then he just hung up. No goodbye. Just vibes.”

Paige chuckled, staring out the window at the pink glow bleeding across the Dallas sky. “You’re their favorite.”

“They’re my favorites too. Even when they call me 'mom' by accident and pretend like it didn’t happen.”

“You do have teacher-mom energy.”

“Oh, shut up,” you said with a laugh. “You miss my teacher-mom energy.”

“Painfully.”

A beat of silence.

“I’m looking at your sweatshirt right now,” you said after a moment. “You left it in my car before you moved. I wore it to bed last night.”

That pulled a breath from Paige she didn’t know she was holding. “Did it still smell like me?”

“It did. Faintly. Like that vanilla lotion you always forget to pack on road trips.”

She smiled. “I haven’t used it since I left.”

“Save it for me?”

“Always.”

She shifted, curling tighter into herself. “Today was hard.”

“Tell me.”

“Team media stuff,” Paige mumbled. “Photos, press questions, PR meetings. They asked about goals. Stats. Leadership. Playmaking. All I could think was, none of that matters until you’re here.”

You were quiet for a moment. “I don’t want to be the reason you’re not present here, Paige.”

“You’re not. You’re the reason I am.” She pressed the heel of her hand into her eye, blinking fast. “I show up every day because I know you’ll be here soon. It’s the only thing keeping me steady.”

You exhaled softly on the other end of the line.

“I’m coming. You know that.”

“I know.”

“But you need to live this part too, babe. Not just wait for me to catch up.”

Paige looked down at the rug. Her socked toe circled the same loop in the fabric she always traced when she was anxious.

“I’m trying,” she whispered.

“I know you are,” you said, gentle and true.

She listened to your breathing—steady, familiar, comforting like a lullaby only she ever got to hear.

“I got your letter,” you said after a pause.

Her breath caught. “You did?”

“It was in my mailbox when I got home today. I read it twice. I cried.”

“Yeah?” Her throat tightened. “I wasn’t sure if I should send it.”

“I’m glad you did.” You paused. “The part where you said you wake up sometimes expecting me to be next to you… that broke me.”

“It breaks me too,” she admitted.

You went quiet, and for a second she thought maybe the call had dropped. But then you spoke, voice lower than before.

“I still sleep on my side of the bed.”

Paige’s eyes burned. “Me too.”

More silence. Not awkward—just full. Weighted. Safe.

“I’ve been drafting lesson plans on weekends,” you said eventually. “Every time I write one, I imagine grading papers at your kitchen table. Coffee beside me. You half-asleep, stealing bites of my breakfast.”

“I want that so bad,” Paige whispered. “Just… life with you.”

“You’ll have it.”

“I’m scared something’s gonna change before then.”

You were quiet. “Do you feel me changing?”

“No,” she answered immediately. “No. I feel you more than ever.”

“Then trust that.”

She let her head fall back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut. “I trust you.”

“Good,” you whispered. “Because I’m not going anywhere. Even if it feels like I’m not close yet—I am. I’m getting closer every single day.”

Paige exhaled shakily. “I need you.”

“You have me.”

It was the kind of sentence Paige wanted to wrap herself in. Warm. Safe. Whole.

“I love you,” she said.

“I love you more,” you replied. “Thirty-nine days.”

She smiled.

Thirty-nine days.

She could wait a little longer.

Paige had never looked at a calendar so obsessively in her life.

Thirteen days.

She’d circled the date in three different colors now. Red, then black, then silver Sharpie because it felt permanent. Final. Like a promise.

Thirteen days until you arrived in Dallas. Thirteen days until she wouldn’t have to fall asleep hugging a pillow that didn’t breathe. Until she wouldn’t have to whisper “I love you” to a lock screen photo anymore.

Her teammates noticed.

“You good, Bueckers?” Arike asked at practice after she botched a layup drill for the third time.

“Yeah. Just… distracted.”

DiJonai raised a brow. “Your girl coming soon?”

Paige glanced down at the court, tried to hide her smile. “Thirteen days.”

Arike let out a low whistle. “We’re about to meet the mysterious teacher girlfriend.”

“She’s real?” Maddy Siegrist joked from the sideline. “I thought y’all made her up for the plot.”

“Shut up,” Paige muttered, but she was grinning.

That night, her phone buzzed with a picture.

You. In the mirror. Hair still damp from a shower, her oversized Wings hoodie falling off one shoulder. The caption underneath said, “Borrowed this. Sorry, not sorry.”

Paige melted into her mattress.

“That’s the only crime I fully endorse.”

Then she FaceTimed you.

You answered almost immediately, face bright despite the bags under your eyes. “Hey, superstar.”

“Hey, thief.”

You smiled. “Caught me.”

“You look good in that.”

“I better. You left it behind for a reason.”

“I did,” Paige said softly. “So you’d have something to hold until I could do it myself again.”

Your face shifted, tenderness blooming at the edges of your eyes. “Two weeks.”

“Twelve days.”

You sighed, smiling into the phone like she’d pressed a kiss to your cheek through the screen. “I packed up my classroom today. Left a note on the desk for the next TA.”

Paige nodded. “It’s real now, huh?”

“It’s always been real,” you said. “But now it’s here. It’s close.”

Paige ran a hand through her hair, breath shaky. “I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“That something will go wrong. That the plane will get canceled. Or your offer will fall through. Or you’ll—”

“I’m coming,” you interrupted, firm, grounding her. “There’s no ‘what if.’ I’m coming. Eleven days and twenty hours. I counted.”

Paige stared at you for a long second.

“Come sleep on the call,” she said quietly.

You blinked. “You want me to fall asleep with you on the phone?”

“I want to hear you breathe,” she whispered. “I want to pretend the distance isn’t real for one night.”

You didn’t hesitate. “Okay.”

She propped her phone up on the pillow beside her. You did the same. It wasn’t perfect—fuzzy audio, a time delay—but it was yours. You talked about nothing for a while. What you made for dinner (pasta), the paper you were editing (some kid plagiarized a poem about dogs), your grocery list for when you moved in (cereal, way too much oat milk, frozen dumplings).

And then it got quiet.

Your voice came soft in the dark, “Ten days tomorrow.”

“I know,” Paige murmured. “It’s starting to feel real.”

“It is real.”

She reached for the screen, like touching glass could bridge miles. “I can’t wait to kiss you again.”

You let out a breath. “Don’t make me cry this late.”

“I just miss you,” Paige said, voice cracking.

“I know, baby. I miss you too.”

Seven days before you arrive, a package showed up at her door with your name scribbled across the top.

Inside was a box of school supplies—pens, Post-its, paper clips—and a hand-written note.

“Figured I should bring some of me to you before I physically can. Can’t wait to leave these all over your kitchen table. Love you always, Your favorite teacher.”

She cried for fifteen minutes after opening it

Four days before, she sat at a team dinner scrolling through your texts, tuning out everything else.

Her phone buzzed.

“T-minus 96 hours. Pack extra chapstick. You’re not escaping all the kisses I owe you.”

She nearly choked on her lemonade.

She didn’t sleep.

She lay on the couch in your sweatshirt, staring at the ceiling, heart galloping in her chest like she was waiting for Christmas morning.

The phone rang at 1:08 AM.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked.

“Nope.”

“Me neither.”

You were quiet together for a while. Then Paige whispered, “Where are you?”

You laughed. “Still in Connecticut. Bags packed. Suitcase by the door. I keep checking my flight time every ten minutes.”

“Me too,” she said. “I keep opening the guest closet to make sure I left you enough space.”

“You didn’t.”

“Guess we’ll be sharing hangers then.” A pause. “Next time I call you,” you said, “it won’t be through a screen.”

Paige closed her eyes. “I’m gonna hold you so tight.”

“I’m gonna let you.”

Two days before.

The sun in Dallas was blinding. Unreasonably bright for a city that had no idea her world was about to tilt.

Paige had just gotten home from practice, keys still in hand, backpack sliding off her shoulder when she grabbed her phone.

One new message from you.

“On the way to my last class now—remind me to tell you about the 8th grader who tried to give me a friendship bracelet today. He said it was for luck on my big move .”

She smiled. She sat on the arm of the couch and typed fast.

“That’s the cutest thing ever.”

Delivered.

No read receipt. That was fine. You were still in class.

An hour passed.

She sent another.

“Dinner’s on me when you land. I bought dumplings. Don’t fight me.”

No response.

She waited.

She called around 9 p.m.

Once. Twice.

Three rings, voicemail.

She left a message.

“Hey, you okay? I know you’ve probably got a million things going on—boxes, checklists, last-minute goodbyes—but… just call me when you get a second, okay? I just want to hear your voice.”

She kept her phone next to her pillow that night, volume up, screen brightness high.

Nothing.

One day before.

The silence clung to her.

She woke with a headache, heart already racing, the cold side of the bed feeling like an accusation.

Still nothing from you.

Paige rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling.

“This is fine,” she whispered to herself. “You’re just busy. You’re probably with your family. Maybe your phone died.”

She called again.

Straight to voicemail.

She texted.

“I’m starting to worry. Just… send me a thumbs up or anything. Please.”

Nothing.

She paced the apartment, uneaten toast still on her plate, coffee gone cold in her mug.

That night, she sat on the kitchen floor in front of the fridge, phone in her lap, eyes red.

“Where are you?” “Baby, please.” “Just tell me you're okay.” “I don’t care if you’re not getting on the plane. I just need to know you're okay.”

She didn’t sleep.

Just stared at the wall.

The day of.

She cleaned the apartment top to bottom.

She couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t cry again.

You were supposed to land at 4:27 p.m.

She stared at the time on her screen—4:00… 4:15… 4:27… 4:40.

No call. No knock at the door. No text.

She scrolled to the airport’s arrival board online. Typed your flight number. Watched it switch from Scheduled to Landed.

Still nothing.

She picked up her phone again. Shaking fingers. Dialed.

Voicemail.

She left one anyway, voice cracking.

“Please don’t do this to me. Please. Just… I need you. I need to know if you’re—if you’re safe. If you changed your mind, I’ll understand. I swear, I’ll understand. Just don’t let it end like this. Not in silence.”

She hung up.

Then slumped down against the front door and broke.

Her body folded over itself. Sobs racked through her like her heart had forgotten how to beat without yours to match it. She stayed there, curled up, whispering your name like a prayer.

She didn’t turn the lights on.

She sat in the dark with your hoodie balled up in her arms and her phone still in her hand.

Her last text read, “I’ll wait by the door.”

But she never heard the knock.

Paige sat on the apartment floor again, back pressed against the kitchen cabinets. The tile was cold beneath her legs. She hadn’t eaten more than toast in 36 hours.

The dumplings were still in the freezer. She hadn’t touched them. Couldn’t.

She refreshed her texts.

Still no read receipts. Still no dots. Still no “Delivered” beneath her messages.

She called again.

Straight to voicemail.

She whispered into the silence like maybe this time the void would answer her.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” she said. “I don’t know if you’re ghosting me or if you’re gone. Please—please—just give me something. Let me hate you. Let me worry. Just don’t let me do both.”

She hung up. Laid down. Didn’t move.

She went to practice. No one said anything until the third missed shot in a row.

“Yo,” Arike called out. “You good, Paige?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just wiped sweat from her brow and threw the ball at the nearest rack.

“Fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I said I’m fine,” Paige snapped, sharper than she meant to. Her voice echoed off the gym walls like a slap.

Her teammates exchanged looks.

“Alright,” Nai said as they walked out of the locker room. “Spill. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Try again.”

Paige exhaled, shoulders slumped. “She was supposed to be here. Three days ago.”

Nai paused. “Wait—your girl? She didn’t come?”

“No call. No text. No voicemail. Nothing.”

Nai’s face softened. “Shit, Paige…”

“I don’t even know if she’s alive.”

“Have you… talked to anyone? Like, her friends, her mom—?”

“She’s private about that. Her family… it’s complicated.”

Nai hesitated. “Did she ever give any signs that she wouldn’t come?”

“No.” Paige blinked hard. “She was excited. We planned everything down to the shelf space. She sent me a letter. She told me she was counting hours. And now it’s just—gone.”

Nai put a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll figure it out.”

Paige flinched. “What if there’s nothing to figure out?”

Nai didn’t answer that.

The team had an off day.

Paige didn’t leave bed.

She watched your old videos on her phone—the ones you sent her when you used to stay up late decorating your classroom or making grilled cheese while dancing around your kitchen.

She watched them on loop until her phone died.

And then she just laid there, eyes burning.

Maddy brought takeout over.

“You need to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I didn’t ask.”

They sat in silence on the couch. Paige pushed rice around her plate without lifting the fork once.

Maddy glanced at her. “Is there any chance she—like, she couldn’t call?”

Paige’s voice cracked. “I don’t know. I’ve thought of everything. Every possibility. Car accident. No service. Anxiety. Cold feet. But it’s been over a week.”

“Have you heard anything?”

Paige shook her head. “Her phone goes straight to voicemail. Her email bounced. Her socials are dark. It’s like she fell off the planet.”

“Bueckers…”

“I keep checking the door,” Paige whispered. “I know she’s not coming, but I can’t help it. I still wake up thinking I’ll hear her keys.”

Maddy’s voice went soft. “You really loved her, huh?”

Paige nodded, eyes shining. “Still do.”

The media started noticing.

Her stats dropped. Her answers got shorter. Smiles didn’t reach her eyes.

In a post-practice interview, someone asked, “Everything okay off the court?”

She blinked, stunned into stillness.

Then nodded once.

But when she got back to the locker room, she cried into her jersey until her shoulders shook and her breath hitched and she didn’t know how to stop.

She texted you again.

“It’s been almost two weeks. Please. I’m not mad. I just need to know if you’re okay. I won’t ask anything else. Just… say something. Anything.”

She stared at the screen for hours.

Nothing.

She scrolled through every old message. Every photo. Every “I love you more.” Every kiss emoji. Every half-finished voice memo you never sent but saved for later.

She played one on loop.

“God, I can’t wait to be there. To be home. With you.”

And then, when her hands couldn’t stop shaking, she recorded one of her own. She didn’t know if it would ever be heard. But she sent it anyway.

“Hey. It’s Paige. I guess this is… my last message. I don’t know if you’re out there, or if you changed your mind, or if something happened and you’re too scared to tell me. But I still love you. And I always will. No matter what.”

She hit send.

And this time, she didn’t wait for the three dots to appear.

There was a new voicemail on Paige’s phone.

Not from you.

Just a spam number, something about her car warranty.

She deleted it without listening.

Your name—your entire thread—was now buried in her messages. She hadn’t opened it in four days. Not because she didn’t care. Because she couldn’t.

Every time she saw it, her stomach clenched. Not from love. From loss.

You had disappeared 25 days ago.

She used to count the days with hope. Now it just felt like proof that people vanish. Even the ones who swore they’d never leave.

Her texts to you had slowed. At first they’d been frantic—ten a day, calls at every hour. Then five a day. Then one. Then every few days.

Now? Nothing in almost a week.

She didn’t even cry anymore.

She just… lived.

Empty. Quiet. Going through the motions.

Practice was quiet. No jokes. No trash talk. Just the dull thud of the ball against hardwood and the squeak of sneakers she barely registered anymore.

Her shooting percentage had dropped 8%.

The coaching staff hadn’t said anything yet, but she could feel it. The stares. The sighs. The weight of eyes tracking her when they thought she wasn’t looking.

After practice, she sat on the locker room bench for ten minutes too long, staring at the wall like it might say something. Like you used to.

She pulled out her phone.

No new messages. No calls.

She scrolled to your contact anyway. Just to see it. Just to remind herself that once, there was a world where your name lit up her screen like sunlight.

She closed the app.

Went home.

Didn’t even shower.

Her phone rang.

She was mid-laundry, a damp towel slung over one arm, the apartment humid from the dryer running too long.

She didn’t check it immediately. Assumed it was Nai or maybe Coach.

It rang again.

She glanced over.

Paused.

Your name.

Your contact photo—the one she took on a lazy spring day, you in her hoodie, your cheeks pink from sun and laughter.

She froze. The call kept ringing. Her thumb hovered. She didn’t move. She just watched it ring. Watched it buzz against the counter like it hadn’t been silent for a month.

Then she let it stop. Didn’t touch it. Didn’t breathe. The screen went dark. She stood still for a long time. It rang again. Same name. Same photo. Same ringtone she hadn’t changed since the day you set it for yourself.

But this time, something cracked in her chest—not a sob, not panic. Just anger. Cold, bitter, exhausted anger.

You didn’t get to vanish for four weeks and come back like nothing happened. You didn’t get to disappear and then dial her number like it was safe to do so. You didn’t get to decide when she hurt. She watched it ring again. Didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

She whispered into the silence, voice flat, “You don’t get to do this to me.”

Then the call ended. And the phone was quiet again. And she sat down on the kitchen floor like she had the first night you didn’t show up. But this time, she didn’t cry. This time, she just turned the phone over, face down.

Let the silence reclaim the room.

The lights at Target Center always made Paige feel electric.

It was different being back here—being home. But nothing about tonight felt comforting.

She was sharp in warmups. Crisp. Clean. Cold. Her jumper was falling like clockwork. Her footwork flawless. Her body obeyed in a way her heart hadn’t for weeks.

She was pissed.

And she was going to take it out on the court.

Fans were already filling in as she paced the baseline, headphones slung around her neck, eyes unfocused as she dribbled through sets.

And then—she saw her.

Your mom.

Sitting alone. Courtside. Seat 3A. The one you said was your favorite seat cause you could watch her without getting blocked by other people.

She was smaller than Paige remembered. Or maybe just older. Her coat was folded neatly in her lap, hands clutching it like it could keep her together.

Paige’s heart stuttered.

She looked away.

Kept warming up.

Refused to let herself feel anything.

Not now. Not after four weeks of unanswered calls. Not after those two rings she let pass without lifting a finger.

She buried the sight of her behind a wall of rage. Let her heartbeat sync with the squeak of shoes, the thud of the ball, the echo of her name being announced with fire in the intro video.

And when the game started?

She was unreal.

Floaters. Crossovers. Mid-range pull-ups that never touched the rim.

By halftime, she had 18 points and 5 assists.

By the end of the third quarter, 27 points, 3 steals, and the crowd was roaring every time she touched the ball.

She didn’t crack. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

Not until the final buzzer sounded.

Not until she saw your mom again.

Still there. Still alone.

Waiting.

She pulled her warmup jacket on and started walking toward the tunnel, jaw tight, jaw locked.

“Paige.” She didn’t stop. “Paige, please.”

No.

No.

She kept walking. One foot in front of the other.

“She didn’t break her promise to you.”

That made her pause.

Your mom’s voice cracked through the noise like a crack in glass.

“She didn’t leave you.”

Paige’s breath caught.

She turned—slow, deliberate.

Your mom was standing now, gripping the railing, eyes already shining with tears.

“She was coming to you,” she whispered. “She never stopped loving you.”

“What did you just say?” Paige’s voice was a whisper.

The older woman’s lips trembled. “Can we… Can we talk somewhere else?”

Paige didn’t respond.

Just reached for her, fingers numb, and pulled her through the tunnel, past a stunned PR intern, down the hallway.

Into the locker room.

Empty.

Silent.

She shut the door behind them. Locked it.

Turned around.

“Say it again,” she said. Not a request. A plea.

Your mother stared at her, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. Her voice was barely there.

“She was on her way to Dallas,” she said. “She left two days early. Wanted to surprise you.”

Paige didn’t move.

“She was so excited. She couldn’t stop smiling. Said she wanted to be there when you got home from practice, said she couldn’t wait another day. She didn’t even tell me. I found the note on the kitchen table.”

Paige’s knees buckled.

She caught herself on the edge of a bench. “No,” she whispered.

“She got in the car that morning. Early. She never made it to the airport.”

Her heart stopped.

“She was hit by a semi on I-95. Fog was thick. The driver didn’t see her. She died on impact.”

Paige didn’t breathe. Couldn’t.

Your mother’s eyes filled again. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t know—how to reach you. I didn’t have your number, not anymore. I tried social media, but…”

“You didn’t call the team?” Paige’s voice was raw.

“I tried, but they didn’t believe me.”

Paige’s hands were shaking.

Your mother took a slow step forward. “She had gifts in the car. Her famous dumplings. Your favorite lotion. And a sweatshirt she swore would make you cry. She had this whole plan. She wanted to sneak in and wait on your couch.”

Paige let out a broken laugh. “That sounds like her.”

“She loved you so much.”

“I know,” Paige whispered, the first tear falling. “I know.”

And then she couldn’t stop them.

They came all at once—weeks of confusion, silence, fury, grief—crashing over her like a wave she never saw coming.

She sobbed into her hands, whole body trembling.

“She said she was coming,” Paige cried. “I waited. I waited so long.”

Your mother stepped forward, slowly, and sat beside her. She didn’t speak. Just reached for Paige’s hand.

It was cold. Small. Familiar.

“She tried,” she said.

That was all.

And it was everything.

That night, Paige didn’t go out with the team. Didn’t talk to media. Didn’t even turn on the lights when she got back to her hotel room.

She laid in bed, clutching her phone.

Opened your last message—the one with the bracelet story.

She read it over and over until her eyes blurred.

Then she opened her voicemails. The one you never got to hear.

She hit play.

And for the first time, she let herself believe you heard it after all.

The rest of the Wings flew back to Dallas the next morning.

Paige didn’t.

She sent a text to her coach. “I need a few more days. I’ll explain when I can.” She didn’t get a reply, just three dots. “Take your time. We’ve got you.”

Your mother offered her the guest room without hesitation.

But Paige couldn’t sleep.

She sat in your driveway for almost half an hour before walking inside, her duffel bag untouched in the trunk. The porch creaked the same way it had in high school. The air smelled like cinnamon and old books. The light in the hallway still flickered if you walked too fast.

The house felt like it had been paused mid-laugh.

Your mother gave her a quiet smile. “You can go up if you want.”

Paige hesitated at the stairs.

“I haven’t changed a thing,” she added.

Paige nodded.

And climbed.

Each step was an echo.

Your bedroom door was half-closed.

She pushed it open slowly, like the room might wake up.

It looked exactly the same.

The posters. The scuffed desk. The stack of books under your windowsill. The UConn flag pinned above your bed from the day you got your acceptance letter.

It felt like walking into a snow globe—perfectly preserved, terrifyingly still.

Her legs moved without permission. She stood in the center of the room, eyes darting from corner to corner.

There was the dent in the wall where you’d knocked your chair back too far trying to recreate a TikTok dance.

There was the blanket she gave you senior year—navy blue, your name and hers stitched into the corner like some inside joke you never explained to anyone else.

There was your old lanyard, still hanging from the doorknob.

And then her eyes landed on it.

The photo frame on your nightstand.

It was them.

Her and you.

From sophomore year.

Both in hoodies, half-asleep on your porch swing. She was leaning into you, your arm around her, eyes closed. You were laughing—head tilted, light spilling from you like a secret the world didn’t deserve.

She staggered forward.

Knees hit the side of the bed.

She picked up the frame with trembling hands. Traced your face with her thumb. Pressed it to her chest like it was the only part of you left.

That’s when it broke.

All of it.

The strength. The waiting. The hope. The disbelief.

She collapsed onto your bed in sobs that felt like thunder.

Big, gasping, shoulder-racking sobs.

“Why,” she cried into your pillow, voice muffled, raw. “Why didn’t I pick you up myself? Why didn’t I call more? Send someone? Why wasn’t I there?”

The pillow soaked beneath her. Your scent still faint.

She curled into it like it could answer her.

“God, you were right there. You were coming to me—early. And I didn’t—I didn’t even get to see you.”

The photo dropped from her hand and landed face-up beside her.

Her tears made the glass shimmer.

She pressed her cheek to it.

“Come back,” she whispered. “Please, baby. I don’t know how to live without you.”

She stayed there for what felt like hours.

Maybe it was.

No one came to check. Your mother didn’t knock. She must’ve known—must’ve felt it.

Paige eventually sat up, wiped her eyes on your sweatshirt still folded at the foot of your bed.

Her voice was wrecked when she finally whispered, “I never stopped waiting for you.”

And maybe she never would.

The cemetery was quiet.

The kind of quiet that made you feel like time had paused just long enough for the earth to breathe.

It was a cool, overcast morning—no sun, no shadows. Just that still, aching gray that matched the way Paige’s heart had felt since the moment she heard the words "she was on her way to surprise you."

Your mother had told her where to go.

Plot 47. Near the far oak. The one that turns red the first in fall.

The walk from the parking lot was long.

Paige carried a bouquet in one hand—sunflowers and dahlias, wrapped in twine. You always said they looked like fireworks made out of joy. She never forgot that.

Her other hand stayed tucked in her jacket pocket, fingers curled tight like she might fall apart if she let them open.

When she reached your grave, she just stood.

Still.

Frozen.

Your name was etched in marble now. Sharp, clean lettering. Birth year. Dash. End year.

Too soon. So unfairly soon.

Beneath it, a line she recognized.

She loved loudly. She laughed often. She never said goodbye without meaning it.

Paige bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.

She knelt slowly. Placed the flowers at the base. Adjusted them twice, even though they were already perfect.

And then she sat.

Cross-legged on the grass.

Facing you.

“I thought I’d have more time,” she said quietly.

The breeze stirred the petals.

“I thought you’d walk into my apartment two days early and I’d laugh and tell you you were crazy for not telling me. I thought we’d fight about cabinet space. I thought I’d kiss you every night for the rest of my life.”

She swallowed hard.

“But instead… I’m sitting here. And this is the first time I’ve seen your name in stone.”

A pause.

“I was angry. Your mom called me after a month of silence and I was angry. I didn’t know you were on your way to me. I didn’t know you never made it.”

She looked down, hands clenched in her lap.

“I thought you left me.”

Her breath trembled.

“I didn’t know you were trying to come home.”

She looked up at the sky.

“I would’ve waited at the airport all day if I had known. I would’ve driven to Minnesota and brought you myself. I would’ve done anything, anything, to see you one more time.”

Her jaw tensed. Eyes shined with fresh tears.

“I still talk to you. Every night. I sleep in your hoodie. I make coffee and pour two mugs like an idiot.”

She wiped her face with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

“The team doesn’t ask anymore. I think they’re scared of breaking me. But I’ve already been broken.”

She took a breath.

“But I’m still here.”

The wind picked up. Rustled the oak leaves above.

“I went back to your bedroom,” Paige said. “It looked exactly the same. Like you were just at school and would be home by dinner.”

She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a small laminated photo—the same one that had sat on your nightstand. The one of the two of you from sophomore year. She laid it gently between the flowers and the stone.

“I wanted to leave this with you,” she said. “Because even if I have to move forward, I’m not leaving you. You’re still the best part of me.”

A gust of wind blew through the grass. Paige looked down.

Her voice dropped, barely audible.

“I love you,” she whispered. “And I always will.”

She sat there for a long time.

Telling you about her next game. About the dumplings she finally cooked. About the song that made her think of you last week and how she cried in the car on the way to practice.

She stayed until the sun started peeking out again. Until the clouds began to thin and the shadows returned.

Then she stood. Pressed two fingers to her lips. Then to your name.

And walked away.

The flowers swayed in the breeze behind her.

The picture stayed.

You stayed.

The cheers were deafening.

It was the second round of the playoffs. Dallas had clawed their way in, and now they were clawing their way forward. The whole arena stood as Paige walked toward center court, Rookie of the Year graphic blazing behind her.

Bright lights. Brighter smile.

But behind that smile, a tremor.

She hadn’t slept much the night before. Not because of nerves. But because the one person she wanted to share this with wasn’t there.

Would never be there again.

She stepped forward, hands steady despite the storm inside her. Her name echoed from the speakers. “2025 WNBA Rookie of the Year… Paige Bueckers!”

Applause.

Spotlights.

Cameras flashing.

A league rep handed her the trophy—sleek, metallic, engraved. Her fingers curled around it automatically. Like she was on autopilot.

She turned to the mic.

The crowd quieted.

Her voice started strong.

“Um… wow. This means the world. First of all, thank you to the league, my teammates, my coaches. The Dallas Wings believed in me the second they drafted me, and I hope I’ve made them proud.”

More cheers.

She smiled faintly.

“I want to thank my family. My friends. The fans. And my hometown—Hopkins, I love you.”

More applause.

Then a pause.

She glanced down at the trophy in her hand. Her fingers tightened.

Her voice softened.

“But… there’s someone else I need to thank.”

The arena stilled.

Paige’s throat bobbed.

“She… she should’ve been here. And she almost was.”

The crowd hushed.

Paige blinked up at the rafters like she was asking for strength from a sky that still felt too far away.

“She was the first person who told me I was going to make it here. She saw this moment before I did. She believed in me when I was tired. She reminded me why I loved this game when I couldn’t feel it.”

She looked directly into the camera.

“Thank you for loving me. For believing in me. For being the kindest, brightest part of my life. This award… I share it with you. I dedicate it to you.”

A single tear slid down her cheek.

“You didn’t make it to the game. But you made me. Every piece of me. So I carry you every time I step on this court.”

The crowd began clapping—slow, quiet. Then stronger. Louder.

Rising like a wave.

Paige stepped back from the mic.

She raised the trophy once. Small, solemn.

And whispered, not into the microphone, but just to the air.

“I hope you’re proud of me.”

The cemetery was quiet again.

Autumn had arrived. The oak tree beside your grave had started to turn—flaming reds and soft oranges bleeding down through the branches like a slow goodbye.

Paige walked the familiar path in silence.

No cameras. No team. No PR handlers. No trophy case.

Just her.

And the small velvet-lined box tucked under her arm.

She wore your hoodie. It still smelled faintly like your shampoo. It was a little too worn now, the cuffs fraying. But it was hers. And it had been yours. And that made it holy.

When she reached your grave, she knelt.

The headstone hadn’t changed. Still your name. Still that cruel little dash between two years that weren’t enough. Still that line.

She never said goodbye without meaning it.

Paige set the box down beside the sunflowers and dahlias she’d brought. The same flowers she always did.

She didn’t open the box right away.

Just stared at your name. Let the wind brush over her face. Let the silence wrap around her like a question with no answer.

“I said I’d bring it to you,” she whispered eventually.

Her fingers found the edges of the velvet. She lifted the lid.

Inside was her Rookie of the Year trophy—well, a replica. The league had sent a second version when they needed to display the original. She didn’t correct them. She was glad for it.

Because this one was for you.

She picked it up gently. Placed it against the stone.

“This was yours before it was mine,” she said. “You trained me in the off-seasons. You studied game tape with me. You kept me grounded when I got caught in my own head.”

She exhaled. It sounded like surrender.

“I know I said the words in my speech. But I needed to say them here.”

A leaf drifted down between them.

She smiled faintly.

“I miss you every day. I talk to you before every game. I look for your face in every crowd. I still text you sometimes. Even though I know the only place I can send anything now… is here.”

She touched the trophy. Then the top edge of your headstone.

“I hope wherever you are, you’re still loud. Still laughing. Still correcting my form from the sidelines and making fun of how dramatic I get during interviews.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away.

“I won, baby,” she whispered. “And it should’ve been us holding this together.”

Her voice dropped to something barely audible.

“But I’m still holding it for both of us.”

She leaned forward. Pressed a kiss to the marble.

And then sat beside your grave. Not in mourning.

But in memory.

She stayed until the sky turned pink behind the trees.

Then stood.

One last look at the trophy. At the stone. At the name she loved more than her own.

“I’ll be back,” she said. “That’s a promise.”

And when she walked away, the wind rustled the leaves—gentle, soft, as if the trees themselves whispered back.

I know.

[uncuredturkeybacon]

baby i’m blushing

𝚜𝚒𝚡 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚜 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which love never ends

The sun filtered in through the half-closed blinds of Paige’s dorm room, casting soft strips of light across the hardwood floor. The room was half-packed—open boxes lined the bed, shoes spilling over the edge, books stacked in leaning towers by the door. A half-empty closet loomed in the corner like a reminder of all the time that had passed and how little of it was left.

You stood near her desk, folding up a Wings hoodie that had been sent in the mail last week, her name stitched in bold on the sleeve.

“She really said number one pick,” you teased gently, holding it up like a trophy.

Paige, sitting cross-legged on her bed, looked up at you and grinned. “She really did. Can you believe that?”

“No,” you said, smile twitching at the corner of your mouth. “But I’m proud of her anyway.”

She tilted her head, her smile dimming into something quieter, more thoughtful. “I’m scared.”

You didn’t answer right away. You folded the hoodie neatly and placed it in the open suitcase at the edge of her bed, smoothing it down like it was fragile.

“I know,” you said softly.

“It’s not the game,” she clarified, glancing at you like she needed you to understand. “I’m not scared about basketball. I’m scared of going without you.”

You walked over and sat beside her, one foot tucked under your knee, your shoulder brushing hers.

“I’ll be there,” you said, firm, not flinching.

Paige leaned her head against your shoulder. “Six months feels like a long time.”

“It’s really not.”

“It feels like it.”

You rested your hand on her thigh, fingers curling just slightly into the fabric of her sweats. She was wearing your high school tee—old and oversized, faded from too many washes. You had given it to her years ago when she’d stolen it after a sleepover and never gave it back. You never asked her to.

“You have a whole season to get through,” you said gently. “I have students to teach and finals to grade and middle schoolers to keep from launching glue sticks at each other. It’ll go fast.”

Paige let out a small breath of laughter. “You really want to be a teacher, huh?”

“I already am. I’m a TA now, remember?” you bumped your shoulder against hers. “And I’ve already got my offer letter. Same school district my mom used to work in. Orientation’s the week after graduation.”

She turned toward you, eyes soft and serious. “That’s incredible.”

“You’re incredible,” you said before you could stop yourself.

Paige blinked, looking down like she needed to hide how fast she blushed. She always got like that when you said things too directly. Too honestly.

She didn’t say anything for a moment.

Then, her voice barely above a whisper, “Are you really gonna come to Dallas?”

You turned toward her fully, one leg sliding off the bed to ground yourself. “Yes.”

“You promise?”

You reached for her hand, threading your fingers together. “I promise.”

Her bottom lip quivered just slightly, and she bit down on it like she could swallow the emotion before it broke the surface.

“You’re not just saying that to make it easier.”

“No, Paige. I mean it.” You squeezed her hand. “Six months from now, I’ll be there. I’ll be in your apartment, probably fighting you for closet space and making you pasta after away games.”

She smiled, even as her eyes welled with tears. “You can’t cook.”

“I’m learning. I made that chicken stir fry last week.”

“That was microwaved chicken stir fry.”

“Still counts.”

She laughed through her tears, leaning in to press her forehead to yours. “God, I love you.”

You closed your eyes. “I love you too.”

There were things you didn’t say—like how terrified you were of her leaving, how the thought of waking up alone in your own dorm made your chest ache. How hard it would be to fall asleep without her cold feet pressing against your calves or her late-night whispered rants about practice drills.

But you also didn’t say how proud you were watching her step into this next chapter. You didn’t need to.

Instead, you kissed her—slow, lingering, full of everything you couldn’t fit into words. When you pulled away, her eyes stayed closed like she was memorizing the shape of your mouth.

“You’ll call?” she whispered.

“Every night,” you said. “Even if it’s just to hear you breathe.”

“That’s weird,” she teased.

“That’s love.”

She leaned into your chest, burying her face in your neck, and you held her. You didn’t move for a long time.

When she left for the airport the next morning, her fingers gripped yours until the last possible moment. You kissed her like you were writing a promise into her mouth. Six months, you told her again. You’ll be there in six months.

And as she stepped through the terminal gate, looking back at you with tears in her eyes and her Wings hoodie pulled tight around her, you smiled through your own heartbreak.

Because you meant it.

And because some promises don’t need reminders.

They just need time.

Dallas felt bigger than it looked on a map.

Everything about it—traffic, heat, even the sky—seemed stretched, like someone had pulled the edges of a familiar world just far enough to make it unrecognizable.

Paige sat alone on the living room floor of her new apartment, a half-unpacked box of plates beside her and a phone balanced on her knee. Her wallpaper was still a photo of you— blurry, mid-laugh, sitting cross-legged in the grass at a park. It was from a late spring picnic, right before you both had to pretend you weren’t about to say goodbye.

She stared at the screen like it might blink and bring you back.

You answered after the third ring, your voice a little breathless. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Paige whispered. It came out softer than she meant. Her chest ached.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” you asked.

“No. Just… sitting.”

“On the floor?”

“Yeah. I don’t know where my couch screws went. I might be living a cushion life for a while.”

You laughed—real, warm, familiar. Paige closed her eyes and let it coat the inside of her ribs.

“That’s kind of poetic,” you said. “Starting your WNBA career on the floor of an empty apartment.”

“Feels more pathetic than poetic.”

“No. I like it. It’s humble.”

Paige exhaled, and her voice cracked just slightly. “I miss you.”

The line was quiet for a second. Then you spoke, your voice gentler. “I miss you too.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. “I keep forgetting you’re not ten minutes away. Like today, I had a good practice, and my first thought was ‘I’m gonna stop by your place and tell you everything.’ And then I remembered.”

“I know,” you said. “I do that too.”

“I drove past a coffee shop the other day and almost walked in just to see if you’d be there. Even though you’ve never even been to Texas.”

You smiled, she could hear it. “You’re thinking of the one near Gampel, huh?”

“Yeah.” She swallowed. “The one where you studied and I’d show up pretending I needed help with nutrition class.”

“You did need help.”

“Whatever. It worked.”

She leaned her head back against the wall and looked around at the blank space surrounding her. The moving truck had come and gone. The furniture was in, but the soul of the apartment hadn’t arrived yet.

It was still missing you.

“How’s school?” she asked.

“Chaotic,” you replied. “One of the kids asked me today if people in the ‘old times’ had internet. I said, ‘Define old.’ He said, ‘Like 2005.’”

Paige laughed, shaking her head. “Rude.”

“I’m ancient now,” you said. “Twenty-two and deteriorating.”

“You better still have the strength to carry all your stuff up three flights when you get here.”

“Oh, I do. I’m saving it all up for the move.”

Her smile faltered. “You’re still coming, right?”

You went quiet again. Not hesitant—just letting it settle, weighty and certain.

“Of course I am.”

Paige closed her eyes. “Promise?”

“I already did.”

“I just…” Her voice trailed. “It’s hard. Not hearing your keys in the door. Not getting to see your face at the end of the day. I love my team, I really do—but they’re not you.”

“I’m not replacing anyone,” you said. “Just adding to it.”

She let that sit with her. “I want you here so bad it hurts sometimes.”

“I know,” you whispered. “Me too.”

Her voice shook. “I don’t want us to change.”

“We won’t.”

“But long distance changes people.”

“Maybe,” you admitted. “But not us. It might make things harder. But not worse.”

She nodded, even though you couldn’t see it. “I just feel like I’m floating through all this without you. The practices, the press, the apartment—it all feels… half real.”

“Paige,” you said, gentle, firm. “I am coming. I’m not drifting away from you. I’m just walking the longer path to the same place.”

She let the silence wrap around her.

“Say something else,” she said softly. “Just talk to me.”

You paused. “Okay… I hung up pictures in my room. There’s one of us from last spring. You’ve got your mouth full of apple slices and you’re giving me the middle finger because I said you looked like a squirrel.”

She laughed. “I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

Paige smiled, small but genuine. She pictured it. You, in your tiny off-campus apartment. Talking about her like she was still part of your day. She was. You were hers, too.

“I love you,” Paige said.

“I love you more,” you answered.

The days ticked by slower than she liked.

Some nights, she fell asleep with the phone still in her hand, your voice still echoing in her ears from a half-finished conversation. Other nights, she'd stay up scrolling through old pictures, rereading texts, listening to voicemails.

Her teammates teased her about being a hopeless romantic. About how she smiled every time your name came up. About how she always checked her phone like she was waiting for someone to come home.

And she was.

Because in six months—five, now—you would.

And when that day came, Paige knew, no amount of missed calls or empty beds would matter. Because you’d be there. You’d walk through the door with a duffel bag and a tired smile, and she'd finally feel whole again.

But until then… she’d wait.

With her phone in her hand. And your promise in her heart.

The calendar on Paige’s fridge had six weeks circled in red.

It was stupid, maybe, using a physical calendar like some suburban mom—but it grounded her. It gave shape to time that otherwise felt endless. Each “X” she scribbled through a square made the space between now and your arrival just a little smaller.

But it didn’t make the missing hurt any less.

Paige sat curled on the apartment couch, legs tucked under her, bowl of cereal in one hand, phone pressed to her cheek with the other. Her hair was still damp from practice. Her whole body ached—but nothing ached more than the space beside her on the couch.

“I got a voicemail from one of my students today,” your voice said through the speaker. “He said, ‘Miss Y/L/N, I hope you feel better because math was boring without you.’ And then he just hung up. No goodbye. Just vibes.”

Paige chuckled, staring out the window at the pink glow bleeding across the Dallas sky. “You’re their favorite.”

“They’re my favorites too. Even when they call me 'mom' by accident and pretend like it didn’t happen.”

“You do have teacher-mom energy.”

“Oh, shut up,” you said with a laugh. “You miss my teacher-mom energy.”

“Painfully.”

A beat of silence.

“I’m looking at your sweatshirt right now,” you said after a moment. “You left it in my car before you moved. I wore it to bed last night.”

That pulled a breath from Paige she didn’t know she was holding. “Did it still smell like me?”

“It did. Faintly. Like that vanilla lotion you always forget to pack on road trips.”

She smiled. “I haven’t used it since I left.”

“Save it for me?”

“Always.”

She shifted, curling tighter into herself. “Today was hard.”

“Tell me.”

“Team media stuff,” Paige mumbled. “Photos, press questions, PR meetings. They asked about goals. Stats. Leadership. Playmaking. All I could think was, none of that matters until you’re here.”

You were quiet for a moment. “I don’t want to be the reason you’re not present here, Paige.”

“You’re not. You’re the reason I am.” She pressed the heel of her hand into her eye, blinking fast. “I show up every day because I know you’ll be here soon. It’s the only thing keeping me steady.”

You exhaled softly on the other end of the line.

“I’m coming. You know that.”

“I know.”

“But you need to live this part too, babe. Not just wait for me to catch up.”

Paige looked down at the rug. Her socked toe circled the same loop in the fabric she always traced when she was anxious.

“I’m trying,” she whispered.

“I know you are,” you said, gentle and true.

She listened to your breathing—steady, familiar, comforting like a lullaby only she ever got to hear.

“I got your letter,” you said after a pause.

Her breath caught. “You did?”

“It was in my mailbox when I got home today. I read it twice. I cried.”

“Yeah?” Her throat tightened. “I wasn’t sure if I should send it.”

“I’m glad you did.” You paused. “The part where you said you wake up sometimes expecting me to be next to you… that broke me.”

“It breaks me too,” she admitted.

You went quiet, and for a second she thought maybe the call had dropped. But then you spoke, voice lower than before.

“I still sleep on my side of the bed.”

Paige’s eyes burned. “Me too.”

More silence. Not awkward—just full. Weighted. Safe.

“I’ve been drafting lesson plans on weekends,” you said eventually. “Every time I write one, I imagine grading papers at your kitchen table. Coffee beside me. You half-asleep, stealing bites of my breakfast.”

“I want that so bad,” Paige whispered. “Just… life with you.”

“You’ll have it.”

“I’m scared something’s gonna change before then.”

You were quiet. “Do you feel me changing?”

“No,” she answered immediately. “No. I feel you more than ever.”

“Then trust that.”

She let her head fall back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut. “I trust you.”

“Good,” you whispered. “Because I’m not going anywhere. Even if it feels like I’m not close yet—I am. I’m getting closer every single day.”

Paige exhaled shakily. “I need you.”

“You have me.”

It was the kind of sentence Paige wanted to wrap herself in. Warm. Safe. Whole.

“I love you,” she said.

“I love you more,” you replied. “Thirty-nine days.”

She smiled.

Thirty-nine days.

She could wait a little longer.

Paige had never looked at a calendar so obsessively in her life.

Thirteen days.

She’d circled the date in three different colors now. Red, then black, then silver Sharpie because it felt permanent. Final. Like a promise.

Thirteen days until you arrived in Dallas. Thirteen days until she wouldn’t have to fall asleep hugging a pillow that didn’t breathe. Until she wouldn’t have to whisper “I love you” to a lock screen photo anymore.

Her teammates noticed.

“You good, Bueckers?” Arike asked at practice after she botched a layup drill for the third time.

“Yeah. Just… distracted.”

DiJonai raised a brow. “Your girl coming soon?”

Paige glanced down at the court, tried to hide her smile. “Thirteen days.”

Arike let out a low whistle. “We’re about to meet the mysterious teacher girlfriend.”

“She’s real?” Maddy Siegrist joked from the sideline. “I thought y’all made her up for the plot.”

“Shut up,” Paige muttered, but she was grinning.

That night, her phone buzzed with a picture.

You. In the mirror. Hair still damp from a shower, her oversized Wings hoodie falling off one shoulder. The caption underneath said, “Borrowed this. Sorry, not sorry.”

Paige melted into her mattress.

“That’s the only crime I fully endorse.”

Then she FaceTimed you.

You answered almost immediately, face bright despite the bags under your eyes. “Hey, superstar.”

“Hey, thief.”

You smiled. “Caught me.”

“You look good in that.”

“I better. You left it behind for a reason.”

“I did,” Paige said softly. “So you’d have something to hold until I could do it myself again.”

Your face shifted, tenderness blooming at the edges of your eyes. “Two weeks.”

“Twelve days.”

You sighed, smiling into the phone like she’d pressed a kiss to your cheek through the screen. “I packed up my classroom today. Left a note on the desk for the next TA.”

Paige nodded. “It’s real now, huh?”

“It’s always been real,” you said. “But now it’s here. It’s close.”

Paige ran a hand through her hair, breath shaky. “I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“That something will go wrong. That the plane will get canceled. Or your offer will fall through. Or you’ll—”

“I’m coming,” you interrupted, firm, grounding her. “There’s no ‘what if.’ I’m coming. Eleven days and twenty hours. I counted.”

Paige stared at you for a long second.

“Come sleep on the call,” she said quietly.

You blinked. “You want me to fall asleep with you on the phone?”

“I want to hear you breathe,” she whispered. “I want to pretend the distance isn’t real for one night.”

You didn’t hesitate. “Okay.”

She propped her phone up on the pillow beside her. You did the same. It wasn’t perfect—fuzzy audio, a time delay—but it was yours. You talked about nothing for a while. What you made for dinner (pasta), the paper you were editing (some kid plagiarized a poem about dogs), your grocery list for when you moved in (cereal, way too much oat milk, frozen dumplings).

And then it got quiet.

Your voice came soft in the dark, “Ten days tomorrow.”

“I know,” Paige murmured. “It’s starting to feel real.”

“It is real.”

She reached for the screen, like touching glass could bridge miles. “I can’t wait to kiss you again.”

You let out a breath. “Don’t make me cry this late.”

“I just miss you,” Paige said, voice cracking.

“I know, baby. I miss you too.”

Seven days before you arrive, a package showed up at her door with your name scribbled across the top.

Inside was a box of school supplies—pens, Post-its, paper clips—and a hand-written note.

“Figured I should bring some of me to you before I physically can. Can’t wait to leave these all over your kitchen table. Love you always, Your favorite teacher.”

She cried for fifteen minutes after opening it

Four days before, she sat at a team dinner scrolling through your texts, tuning out everything else.

Her phone buzzed.

“T-minus 96 hours. Pack extra chapstick. You’re not escaping all the kisses I owe you.”

She nearly choked on her lemonade.

She didn’t sleep.

She lay on the couch in your sweatshirt, staring at the ceiling, heart galloping in her chest like she was waiting for Christmas morning.

The phone rang at 1:08 AM.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked.

“Nope.”

“Me neither.”

You were quiet together for a while. Then Paige whispered, “Where are you?”

You laughed. “Still in Connecticut. Bags packed. Suitcase by the door. I keep checking my flight time every ten minutes.”

“Me too,” she said. “I keep opening the guest closet to make sure I left you enough space.”

“You didn’t.”

“Guess we’ll be sharing hangers then.” A pause. “Next time I call you,” you said, “it won’t be through a screen.”

Paige closed her eyes. “I’m gonna hold you so tight.”

“I’m gonna let you.”

Two days before.

The sun in Dallas was blinding. Unreasonably bright for a city that had no idea her world was about to tilt.

Paige had just gotten home from practice, keys still in hand, backpack sliding off her shoulder when she grabbed her phone.

One new message from you.

“On the way to my last class now—remind me to tell you about the 8th grader who tried to give me a friendship bracelet today. He said it was for luck on my big move .”

She smiled. She sat on the arm of the couch and typed fast.

“That’s the cutest thing ever.”

Delivered.

No read receipt. That was fine. You were still in class.

An hour passed.

She sent another.

“Dinner’s on me when you land. I bought dumplings. Don’t fight me.”

No response.

She waited.

She called around 9 p.m.

Once. Twice.

Three rings, voicemail.

She left a message.

“Hey, you okay? I know you’ve probably got a million things going on—boxes, checklists, last-minute goodbyes—but… just call me when you get a second, okay? I just want to hear your voice.”

She kept her phone next to her pillow that night, volume up, screen brightness high.

Nothing.

One day before.

The silence clung to her.

She woke with a headache, heart already racing, the cold side of the bed feeling like an accusation.

Still nothing from you.

Paige rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling.

“This is fine,” she whispered to herself. “You’re just busy. You’re probably with your family. Maybe your phone died.”

She called again.

Straight to voicemail.

She texted.

“I’m starting to worry. Just… send me a thumbs up or anything. Please.”

Nothing.

She paced the apartment, uneaten toast still on her plate, coffee gone cold in her mug.

That night, she sat on the kitchen floor in front of the fridge, phone in her lap, eyes red.

“Where are you?” “Baby, please.” “Just tell me you're okay.” “I don’t care if you’re not getting on the plane. I just need to know you're okay.”

She didn’t sleep.

Just stared at the wall.

The day of.

She cleaned the apartment top to bottom.

She couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t cry again.

You were supposed to land at 4:27 p.m.

She stared at the time on her screen—4:00… 4:15… 4:27… 4:40.

No call. No knock at the door. No text.

She scrolled to the airport’s arrival board online. Typed your flight number. Watched it switch from Scheduled to Landed.

Still nothing.

She picked up her phone again. Shaking fingers. Dialed.

Voicemail.

She left one anyway, voice cracking.

“Please don’t do this to me. Please. Just… I need you. I need to know if you’re—if you’re safe. If you changed your mind, I’ll understand. I swear, I’ll understand. Just don’t let it end like this. Not in silence.”

She hung up.

Then slumped down against the front door and broke.

Her body folded over itself. Sobs racked through her like her heart had forgotten how to beat without yours to match it. She stayed there, curled up, whispering your name like a prayer.

She didn’t turn the lights on.

She sat in the dark with your hoodie balled up in her arms and her phone still in her hand.

Her last text read, “I’ll wait by the door.”

But she never heard the knock.

Paige sat on the apartment floor again, back pressed against the kitchen cabinets. The tile was cold beneath her legs. She hadn’t eaten more than toast in 36 hours.

The dumplings were still in the freezer. She hadn’t touched them. Couldn’t.

She refreshed her texts.

Still no read receipts. Still no dots. Still no “Delivered” beneath her messages.

She called again.

Straight to voicemail.

She whispered into the silence like maybe this time the void would answer her.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” she said. “I don’t know if you’re ghosting me or if you’re gone. Please—please—just give me something. Let me hate you. Let me worry. Just don’t let me do both.”

She hung up. Laid down. Didn’t move.

She went to practice. No one said anything until the third missed shot in a row.

“Yo,” Arike called out. “You good, Paige?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just wiped sweat from her brow and threw the ball at the nearest rack.

“Fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I said I’m fine,” Paige snapped, sharper than she meant to. Her voice echoed off the gym walls like a slap.

Her teammates exchanged looks.

“Alright,” Nai said as they walked out of the locker room. “Spill. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Try again.”

Paige exhaled, shoulders slumped. “She was supposed to be here. Three days ago.”

Nai paused. “Wait—your girl? She didn’t come?”

“No call. No text. No voicemail. Nothing.”

Nai’s face softened. “Shit, Paige…”

“I don’t even know if she’s alive.”

“Have you… talked to anyone? Like, her friends, her mom—?”

“She’s private about that. Her family… it’s complicated.”

Nai hesitated. “Did she ever give any signs that she wouldn’t come?”

“No.” Paige blinked hard. “She was excited. We planned everything down to the shelf space. She sent me a letter. She told me she was counting hours. And now it’s just—gone.”

Nai put a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll figure it out.”

Paige flinched. “What if there’s nothing to figure out?”

Nai didn’t answer that.

The team had an off day.

Paige didn’t leave bed.

She watched your old videos on her phone—the ones you sent her when you used to stay up late decorating your classroom or making grilled cheese while dancing around your kitchen.

She watched them on loop until her phone died.

And then she just laid there, eyes burning.

Maddy brought takeout over.

“You need to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I didn’t ask.”

They sat in silence on the couch. Paige pushed rice around her plate without lifting the fork once.

Maddy glanced at her. “Is there any chance she—like, she couldn’t call?”

Paige’s voice cracked. “I don’t know. I’ve thought of everything. Every possibility. Car accident. No service. Anxiety. Cold feet. But it’s been over a week.”

“Have you heard anything?”

Paige shook her head. “Her phone goes straight to voicemail. Her email bounced. Her socials are dark. It’s like she fell off the planet.”

“Bueckers…”

“I keep checking the door,” Paige whispered. “I know she’s not coming, but I can’t help it. I still wake up thinking I’ll hear her keys.”

Maddy’s voice went soft. “You really loved her, huh?”

Paige nodded, eyes shining. “Still do.”

The media started noticing.

Her stats dropped. Her answers got shorter. Smiles didn’t reach her eyes.

In a post-practice interview, someone asked, “Everything okay off the court?”

She blinked, stunned into stillness.

Then nodded once.

But when she got back to the locker room, she cried into her jersey until her shoulders shook and her breath hitched and she didn’t know how to stop.

She texted you again.

“It’s been almost two weeks. Please. I’m not mad. I just need to know if you’re okay. I won’t ask anything else. Just… say something. Anything.”

She stared at the screen for hours.

Nothing.

She scrolled through every old message. Every photo. Every “I love you more.” Every kiss emoji. Every half-finished voice memo you never sent but saved for later.

She played one on loop.

“God, I can’t wait to be there. To be home. With you.”

And then, when her hands couldn’t stop shaking, she recorded one of her own. She didn’t know if it would ever be heard. But she sent it anyway.

“Hey. It’s Paige. I guess this is… my last message. I don’t know if you’re out there, or if you changed your mind, or if something happened and you’re too scared to tell me. But I still love you. And I always will. No matter what.”

She hit send.

And this time, she didn’t wait for the three dots to appear.

There was a new voicemail on Paige’s phone.

Not from you.

Just a spam number, something about her car warranty.

She deleted it without listening.

Your name—your entire thread—was now buried in her messages. She hadn’t opened it in four days. Not because she didn’t care. Because she couldn’t.

Every time she saw it, her stomach clenched. Not from love. From loss.

You had disappeared 25 days ago.

She used to count the days with hope. Now it just felt like proof that people vanish. Even the ones who swore they’d never leave.

Her texts to you had slowed. At first they’d been frantic—ten a day, calls at every hour. Then five a day. Then one. Then every few days.

Now? Nothing in almost a week.

She didn’t even cry anymore.

She just… lived.

Empty. Quiet. Going through the motions.

Practice was quiet. No jokes. No trash talk. Just the dull thud of the ball against hardwood and the squeak of sneakers she barely registered anymore.

Her shooting percentage had dropped 8%.

The coaching staff hadn’t said anything yet, but she could feel it. The stares. The sighs. The weight of eyes tracking her when they thought she wasn’t looking.

After practice, she sat on the locker room bench for ten minutes too long, staring at the wall like it might say something. Like you used to.

She pulled out her phone.

No new messages. No calls.

She scrolled to your contact anyway. Just to see it. Just to remind herself that once, there was a world where your name lit up her screen like sunlight.

She closed the app.

Went home.

Didn’t even shower.

Her phone rang.

She was mid-laundry, a damp towel slung over one arm, the apartment humid from the dryer running too long.

She didn’t check it immediately. Assumed it was Nai or maybe Coach.

It rang again.

She glanced over.

Paused.

Your name.

Your contact photo—the one she took on a lazy spring day, you in her hoodie, your cheeks pink from sun and laughter.

She froze. The call kept ringing. Her thumb hovered. She didn’t move. She just watched it ring. Watched it buzz against the counter like it hadn’t been silent for a month.

Then she let it stop. Didn’t touch it. Didn’t breathe. The screen went dark. She stood still for a long time. It rang again. Same name. Same photo. Same ringtone she hadn’t changed since the day you set it for yourself.

But this time, something cracked in her chest—not a sob, not panic. Just anger. Cold, bitter, exhausted anger.

You didn’t get to vanish for four weeks and come back like nothing happened. You didn’t get to disappear and then dial her number like it was safe to do so. You didn’t get to decide when she hurt. She watched it ring again. Didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

She whispered into the silence, voice flat, “You don’t get to do this to me.”

Then the call ended. And the phone was quiet again. And she sat down on the kitchen floor like she had the first night you didn’t show up. But this time, she didn’t cry. This time, she just turned the phone over, face down.

Let the silence reclaim the room.

The lights at Target Center always made Paige feel electric.

It was different being back here—being home. But nothing about tonight felt comforting.

She was sharp in warmups. Crisp. Clean. Cold. Her jumper was falling like clockwork. Her footwork flawless. Her body obeyed in a way her heart hadn’t for weeks.

She was pissed.

And she was going to take it out on the court.

Fans were already filling in as she paced the baseline, headphones slung around her neck, eyes unfocused as she dribbled through sets.

And then—she saw her.

Your mom.

Sitting alone. Courtside. Seat 3A. The one you said was your favorite seat cause you could watch her without getting blocked by other people.

She was smaller than Paige remembered. Or maybe just older. Her coat was folded neatly in her lap, hands clutching it like it could keep her together.

Paige’s heart stuttered.

She looked away.

Kept warming up.

Refused to let herself feel anything.

Not now. Not after four weeks of unanswered calls. Not after those two rings she let pass without lifting a finger.

She buried the sight of her behind a wall of rage. Let her heartbeat sync with the squeak of shoes, the thud of the ball, the echo of her name being announced with fire in the intro video.

And when the game started?

She was unreal.

Floaters. Crossovers. Mid-range pull-ups that never touched the rim.

By halftime, she had 18 points and 5 assists.

By the end of the third quarter, 27 points, 3 steals, and the crowd was roaring every time she touched the ball.

She didn’t crack. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

Not until the final buzzer sounded.

Not until she saw your mom again.

Still there. Still alone.

Waiting.

She pulled her warmup jacket on and started walking toward the tunnel, jaw tight, jaw locked.

“Paige.” She didn’t stop. “Paige, please.”

No.

No.

She kept walking. One foot in front of the other.

“She didn’t break her promise to you.”

That made her pause.

Your mom’s voice cracked through the noise like a crack in glass.

“She didn’t leave you.”

Paige’s breath caught.

She turned—slow, deliberate.

Your mom was standing now, gripping the railing, eyes already shining with tears.

“She was coming to you,” she whispered. “She never stopped loving you.”

“What did you just say?” Paige’s voice was a whisper.

The older woman’s lips trembled. “Can we… Can we talk somewhere else?”

Paige didn’t respond.

Just reached for her, fingers numb, and pulled her through the tunnel, past a stunned PR intern, down the hallway.

Into the locker room.

Empty.

Silent.

She shut the door behind them. Locked it.

Turned around.

“Say it again,” she said. Not a request. A plea.

Your mother stared at her, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. Her voice was barely there.

“She was on her way to Dallas,” she said. “She left two days early. Wanted to surprise you.”

Paige didn’t move.

“She was so excited. She couldn’t stop smiling. Said she wanted to be there when you got home from practice, said she couldn’t wait another day. She didn’t even tell me. I found the note on the kitchen table.”

Paige’s knees buckled.

She caught herself on the edge of a bench. “No,” she whispered.

“She got in the car that morning. Early. She never made it to the airport.”

Her heart stopped.

“She was hit by a semi on I-95. Fog was thick. The driver didn’t see her. She died on impact.”

Paige didn’t breathe. Couldn’t.

Your mother’s eyes filled again. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t know—how to reach you. I didn’t have your number, not anymore. I tried social media, but…”

“You didn’t call the team?” Paige’s voice was raw.

“I tried, but they didn’t believe me.”

Paige’s hands were shaking.

Your mother took a slow step forward. “She had gifts in the car. Her famous dumplings. Your favorite lotion. And a sweatshirt she swore would make you cry. She had this whole plan. She wanted to sneak in and wait on your couch.”

Paige let out a broken laugh. “That sounds like her.”

“She loved you so much.”

“I know,” Paige whispered, the first tear falling. “I know.”

And then she couldn’t stop them.

They came all at once—weeks of confusion, silence, fury, grief—crashing over her like a wave she never saw coming.

She sobbed into her hands, whole body trembling.

“She said she was coming,” Paige cried. “I waited. I waited so long.”

Your mother stepped forward, slowly, and sat beside her. She didn’t speak. Just reached for Paige’s hand.

It was cold. Small. Familiar.

“She tried,” she said.

That was all.

And it was everything.

That night, Paige didn’t go out with the team. Didn’t talk to media. Didn’t even turn on the lights when she got back to her hotel room.

She laid in bed, clutching her phone.

Opened your last message—the one with the bracelet story.

She read it over and over until her eyes blurred.

Then she opened her voicemails. The one you never got to hear.

She hit play.

And for the first time, she let herself believe you heard it after all.

The rest of the Wings flew back to Dallas the next morning.

Paige didn’t.

She sent a text to her coach. “I need a few more days. I’ll explain when I can.” She didn’t get a reply, just three dots. “Take your time. We’ve got you.”

Your mother offered her the guest room without hesitation.

But Paige couldn’t sleep.

She sat in your driveway for almost half an hour before walking inside, her duffel bag untouched in the trunk. The porch creaked the same way it had in high school. The air smelled like cinnamon and old books. The light in the hallway still flickered if you walked too fast.

The house felt like it had been paused mid-laugh.

Your mother gave her a quiet smile. “You can go up if you want.”

Paige hesitated at the stairs.

“I haven’t changed a thing,” she added.

Paige nodded.

And climbed.

Each step was an echo.

Your bedroom door was half-closed.

She pushed it open slowly, like the room might wake up.

It looked exactly the same.

The posters. The scuffed desk. The stack of books under your windowsill. The UConn flag pinned above your bed from the day you got your acceptance letter.

It felt like walking into a snow globe—perfectly preserved, terrifyingly still.

Her legs moved without permission. She stood in the center of the room, eyes darting from corner to corner.

There was the dent in the wall where you’d knocked your chair back too far trying to recreate a TikTok dance.

There was the blanket she gave you senior year—navy blue, your name and hers stitched into the corner like some inside joke you never explained to anyone else.

There was your old lanyard, still hanging from the doorknob.

And then her eyes landed on it.

The photo frame on your nightstand.

It was them.

Her and you.

From sophomore year.

Both in hoodies, half-asleep on your porch swing. She was leaning into you, your arm around her, eyes closed. You were laughing—head tilted, light spilling from you like a secret the world didn’t deserve.

She staggered forward.

Knees hit the side of the bed.

She picked up the frame with trembling hands. Traced your face with her thumb. Pressed it to her chest like it was the only part of you left.

That’s when it broke.

All of it.

The strength. The waiting. The hope. The disbelief.

She collapsed onto your bed in sobs that felt like thunder.

Big, gasping, shoulder-racking sobs.

“Why,” she cried into your pillow, voice muffled, raw. “Why didn’t I pick you up myself? Why didn’t I call more? Send someone? Why wasn’t I there?”

The pillow soaked beneath her. Your scent still faint.

She curled into it like it could answer her.

“God, you were right there. You were coming to me—early. And I didn’t—I didn’t even get to see you.”

The photo dropped from her hand and landed face-up beside her.

Her tears made the glass shimmer.

She pressed her cheek to it.

“Come back,” she whispered. “Please, baby. I don’t know how to live without you.”

She stayed there for what felt like hours.

Maybe it was.

No one came to check. Your mother didn’t knock. She must’ve known—must’ve felt it.

Paige eventually sat up, wiped her eyes on your sweatshirt still folded at the foot of your bed.

Her voice was wrecked when she finally whispered, “I never stopped waiting for you.”

And maybe she never would.

The cemetery was quiet.

The kind of quiet that made you feel like time had paused just long enough for the earth to breathe.

It was a cool, overcast morning—no sun, no shadows. Just that still, aching gray that matched the way Paige’s heart had felt since the moment she heard the words "she was on her way to surprise you."

Your mother had told her where to go.

Plot 47. Near the far oak. The one that turns red the first in fall.

The walk from the parking lot was long.

Paige carried a bouquet in one hand—sunflowers and dahlias, wrapped in twine. You always said they looked like fireworks made out of joy. She never forgot that.

Her other hand stayed tucked in her jacket pocket, fingers curled tight like she might fall apart if she let them open.

When she reached your grave, she just stood.

Still.

Frozen.

Your name was etched in marble now. Sharp, clean lettering. Birth year. Dash. End year.

Too soon. So unfairly soon.

Beneath it, a line she recognized.

She loved loudly. She laughed often. She never said goodbye without meaning it.

Paige bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.

She knelt slowly. Placed the flowers at the base. Adjusted them twice, even though they were already perfect.

And then she sat.

Cross-legged on the grass.

Facing you.

“I thought I’d have more time,” she said quietly.

The breeze stirred the petals.

“I thought you’d walk into my apartment two days early and I’d laugh and tell you you were crazy for not telling me. I thought we’d fight about cabinet space. I thought I’d kiss you every night for the rest of my life.”

She swallowed hard.

“But instead… I’m sitting here. And this is the first time I’ve seen your name in stone.”

A pause.

“I was angry. Your mom called me after a month of silence and I was angry. I didn’t know you were on your way to me. I didn’t know you never made it.”

She looked down, hands clenched in her lap.

“I thought you left me.”

Her breath trembled.

“I didn’t know you were trying to come home.”

She looked up at the sky.

“I would’ve waited at the airport all day if I had known. I would’ve driven to Minnesota and brought you myself. I would’ve done anything, anything, to see you one more time.”

Her jaw tensed. Eyes shined with fresh tears.

“I still talk to you. Every night. I sleep in your hoodie. I make coffee and pour two mugs like an idiot.”

She wiped her face with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

“The team doesn’t ask anymore. I think they’re scared of breaking me. But I’ve already been broken.”

She took a breath.

“But I’m still here.”

The wind picked up. Rustled the oak leaves above.

“I went back to your bedroom,” Paige said. “It looked exactly the same. Like you were just at school and would be home by dinner.”

She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a small laminated photo—the same one that had sat on your nightstand. The one of the two of you from sophomore year. She laid it gently between the flowers and the stone.

“I wanted to leave this with you,” she said. “Because even if I have to move forward, I’m not leaving you. You’re still the best part of me.”

A gust of wind blew through the grass. Paige looked down.

Her voice dropped, barely audible.

“I love you,” she whispered. “And I always will.”

She sat there for a long time.

Telling you about her next game. About the dumplings she finally cooked. About the song that made her think of you last week and how she cried in the car on the way to practice.

She stayed until the sun started peeking out again. Until the clouds began to thin and the shadows returned.

Then she stood. Pressed two fingers to her lips. Then to your name.

And walked away.

The flowers swayed in the breeze behind her.

The picture stayed.

You stayed.

The cheers were deafening.

It was the second round of the playoffs. Dallas had clawed their way in, and now they were clawing their way forward. The whole arena stood as Paige walked toward center court, Rookie of the Year graphic blazing behind her.

Bright lights. Brighter smile.

But behind that smile, a tremor.

She hadn’t slept much the night before. Not because of nerves. But because the one person she wanted to share this with wasn’t there.

Would never be there again.

She stepped forward, hands steady despite the storm inside her. Her name echoed from the speakers. “2025 WNBA Rookie of the Year… Paige Bueckers!”

Applause.

Spotlights.

Cameras flashing.

A league rep handed her the trophy—sleek, metallic, engraved. Her fingers curled around it automatically. Like she was on autopilot.

She turned to the mic.

The crowd quieted.

Her voice started strong.

“Um… wow. This means the world. First of all, thank you to the league, my teammates, my coaches. The Dallas Wings believed in me the second they drafted me, and I hope I’ve made them proud.”

More cheers.

She smiled faintly.

“I want to thank my family. My friends. The fans. And my hometown—Hopkins, I love you.”

More applause.

Then a pause.

She glanced down at the trophy in her hand. Her fingers tightened.

Her voice softened.

“But… there’s someone else I need to thank.”

The arena stilled.

Paige’s throat bobbed.

“She… she should’ve been here. And she almost was.”

The crowd hushed.

Paige blinked up at the rafters like she was asking for strength from a sky that still felt too far away.

“She was the first person who told me I was going to make it here. She saw this moment before I did. She believed in me when I was tired. She reminded me why I loved this game when I couldn’t feel it.”

She looked directly into the camera.

“Thank you for loving me. For believing in me. For being the kindest, brightest part of my life. This award… I share it with you. I dedicate it to you.”

A single tear slid down her cheek.

“You didn’t make it to the game. But you made me. Every piece of me. So I carry you every time I step on this court.”

The crowd began clapping—slow, quiet. Then stronger. Louder.

Rising like a wave.

Paige stepped back from the mic.

She raised the trophy once. Small, solemn.

And whispered, not into the microphone, but just to the air.

“I hope you’re proud of me.”

The cemetery was quiet again.

Autumn had arrived. The oak tree beside your grave had started to turn—flaming reds and soft oranges bleeding down through the branches like a slow goodbye.

Paige walked the familiar path in silence.

No cameras. No team. No PR handlers. No trophy case.

Just her.

And the small velvet-lined box tucked under her arm.

She wore your hoodie. It still smelled faintly like your shampoo. It was a little too worn now, the cuffs fraying. But it was hers. And it had been yours. And that made it holy.

When she reached your grave, she knelt.

The headstone hadn’t changed. Still your name. Still that cruel little dash between two years that weren’t enough. Still that line.

She never said goodbye without meaning it.

Paige set the box down beside the sunflowers and dahlias she’d brought. The same flowers she always did.

She didn’t open the box right away.

Just stared at your name. Let the wind brush over her face. Let the silence wrap around her like a question with no answer.

“I said I’d bring it to you,” she whispered eventually.

Her fingers found the edges of the velvet. She lifted the lid.

Inside was her Rookie of the Year trophy—well, a replica. The league had sent a second version when they needed to display the original. She didn’t correct them. She was glad for it.

Because this one was for you.

She picked it up gently. Placed it against the stone.

“This was yours before it was mine,” she said. “You trained me in the off-seasons. You studied game tape with me. You kept me grounded when I got caught in my own head.”

She exhaled. It sounded like surrender.

“I know I said the words in my speech. But I needed to say them here.”

A leaf drifted down between them.

She smiled faintly.

“I miss you every day. I talk to you before every game. I look for your face in every crowd. I still text you sometimes. Even though I know the only place I can send anything now… is here.”

She touched the trophy. Then the top edge of your headstone.

“I hope wherever you are, you’re still loud. Still laughing. Still correcting my form from the sidelines and making fun of how dramatic I get during interviews.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away.

“I won, baby,” she whispered. “And it should’ve been us holding this together.”

Her voice dropped to something barely audible.

“But I’m still holding it for both of us.”

She leaned forward. Pressed a kiss to the marble.

And then sat beside your grave. Not in mourning.

But in memory.

She stayed until the sky turned pink behind the trees.

Then stood.

One last look at the trophy. At the stone. At the name she loved more than her own.

“I’ll be back,” she said. “That’s a promise.”

And when she walked away, the wind rustled the leaves—gentle, soft, as if the trees themselves whispered back.

I know.

[uncuredturkeybacon]

alright fine just for you 💋 🧱

𝚜𝚒𝚡 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚜 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which love never ends

The sun filtered in through the half-closed blinds of Paige’s dorm room, casting soft strips of light across the hardwood floor. The room was half-packed—open boxes lined the bed, shoes spilling over the edge, books stacked in leaning towers by the door. A half-empty closet loomed in the corner like a reminder of all the time that had passed and how little of it was left.

You stood near her desk, folding up a Wings hoodie that had been sent in the mail last week, her name stitched in bold on the sleeve.

“She really said number one pick,” you teased gently, holding it up like a trophy.

Paige, sitting cross-legged on her bed, looked up at you and grinned. “She really did. Can you believe that?”

“No,” you said, smile twitching at the corner of your mouth. “But I’m proud of her anyway.”

She tilted her head, her smile dimming into something quieter, more thoughtful. “I’m scared.”

You didn’t answer right away. You folded the hoodie neatly and placed it in the open suitcase at the edge of her bed, smoothing it down like it was fragile.

“I know,” you said softly.

“It’s not the game,” she clarified, glancing at you like she needed you to understand. “I’m not scared about basketball. I’m scared of going without you.”

You walked over and sat beside her, one foot tucked under your knee, your shoulder brushing hers.

“I’ll be there,” you said, firm, not flinching.

Paige leaned her head against your shoulder. “Six months feels like a long time.”

“It’s really not.”

“It feels like it.”

You rested your hand on her thigh, fingers curling just slightly into the fabric of her sweats. She was wearing your high school tee—old and oversized, faded from too many washes. You had given it to her years ago when she’d stolen it after a sleepover and never gave it back. You never asked her to.

“You have a whole season to get through,” you said gently. “I have students to teach and finals to grade and middle schoolers to keep from launching glue sticks at each other. It’ll go fast.”

Paige let out a small breath of laughter. “You really want to be a teacher, huh?”

“I already am. I’m a TA now, remember?” you bumped your shoulder against hers. “And I’ve already got my offer letter. Same school district my mom used to work in. Orientation’s the week after graduation.”

She turned toward you, eyes soft and serious. “That’s incredible.”

“You’re incredible,” you said before you could stop yourself.

Paige blinked, looking down like she needed to hide how fast she blushed. She always got like that when you said things too directly. Too honestly.

She didn’t say anything for a moment.

Then, her voice barely above a whisper, “Are you really gonna come to Dallas?”

You turned toward her fully, one leg sliding off the bed to ground yourself. “Yes.”

“You promise?”

You reached for her hand, threading your fingers together. “I promise.”

Her bottom lip quivered just slightly, and she bit down on it like she could swallow the emotion before it broke the surface.

“You’re not just saying that to make it easier.”

“No, Paige. I mean it.” You squeezed her hand. “Six months from now, I’ll be there. I’ll be in your apartment, probably fighting you for closet space and making you pasta after away games.”

She smiled, even as her eyes welled with tears. “You can’t cook.”

“I’m learning. I made that chicken stir fry last week.”

“That was microwaved chicken stir fry.”

“Still counts.”

She laughed through her tears, leaning in to press her forehead to yours. “God, I love you.”

You closed your eyes. “I love you too.”

There were things you didn’t say—like how terrified you were of her leaving, how the thought of waking up alone in your own dorm made your chest ache. How hard it would be to fall asleep without her cold feet pressing against your calves or her late-night whispered rants about practice drills.

But you also didn’t say how proud you were watching her step into this next chapter. You didn’t need to.

Instead, you kissed her—slow, lingering, full of everything you couldn’t fit into words. When you pulled away, her eyes stayed closed like she was memorizing the shape of your mouth.

“You’ll call?” she whispered.

“Every night,” you said. “Even if it’s just to hear you breathe.”

“That’s weird,” she teased.

“That’s love.”

She leaned into your chest, burying her face in your neck, and you held her. You didn’t move for a long time.

When she left for the airport the next morning, her fingers gripped yours until the last possible moment. You kissed her like you were writing a promise into her mouth. Six months, you told her again. You’ll be there in six months.

And as she stepped through the terminal gate, looking back at you with tears in her eyes and her Wings hoodie pulled tight around her, you smiled through your own heartbreak.

Because you meant it.

And because some promises don’t need reminders.

They just need time.

Dallas felt bigger than it looked on a map.

Everything about it—traffic, heat, even the sky—seemed stretched, like someone had pulled the edges of a familiar world just far enough to make it unrecognizable.

Paige sat alone on the living room floor of her new apartment, a half-unpacked box of plates beside her and a phone balanced on her knee. Her wallpaper was still a photo of you— blurry, mid-laugh, sitting cross-legged in the grass at a park. It was from a late spring picnic, right before you both had to pretend you weren’t about to say goodbye.

She stared at the screen like it might blink and bring you back.

You answered after the third ring, your voice a little breathless. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Paige whispered. It came out softer than she meant. Her chest ached.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” you asked.

“No. Just… sitting.”

“On the floor?”

“Yeah. I don’t know where my couch screws went. I might be living a cushion life for a while.”

You laughed—real, warm, familiar. Paige closed her eyes and let it coat the inside of her ribs.

“That’s kind of poetic,” you said. “Starting your WNBA career on the floor of an empty apartment.”

“Feels more pathetic than poetic.”

“No. I like it. It’s humble.”

Paige exhaled, and her voice cracked just slightly. ��I miss you.”

The line was quiet for a second. Then you spoke, your voice gentler. “I miss you too.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. “I keep forgetting you’re not ten minutes away. Like today, I had a good practice, and my first thought was ‘I’m gonna stop by your place and tell you everything.’ And then I remembered.”

“I know,” you said. “I do that too.”

“I drove past a coffee shop the other day and almost walked in just to see if you’d be there. Even though you’ve never even been to Texas.”

You smiled, she could hear it. “You’re thinking of the one near Gampel, huh?”

“Yeah.” She swallowed. “The one where you studied and I’d show up pretending I needed help with nutrition class.”

“You did need help.”

“Whatever. It worked.”

She leaned her head back against the wall and looked around at the blank space surrounding her. The moving truck had come and gone. The furniture was in, but the soul of the apartment hadn’t arrived yet.

It was still missing you.

“How’s school?” she asked.

“Chaotic,” you replied. “One of the kids asked me today if people in the ‘old times’ had internet. I said, ‘Define old.’ He said, ‘Like 2005.’”

Paige laughed, shaking her head. “Rude.”

“I’m ancient now,” you said. “Twenty-two and deteriorating.”

“You better still have the strength to carry all your stuff up three flights when you get here.”

“Oh, I do. I’m saving it all up for the move.”

Her smile faltered. “You’re still coming, right?”

You went quiet again. Not hesitant—just letting it settle, weighty and certain.

“Of course I am.”

Paige closed her eyes. “Promise?”

“I already did.”

“I just…” Her voice trailed. “It’s hard. Not hearing your keys in the door. Not getting to see your face at the end of the day. I love my team, I really do—but they’re not you.”

“I’m not replacing anyone,” you said. “Just adding to it.”

She let that sit with her. “I want you here so bad it hurts sometimes.”

“I know,” you whispered. “Me too.”

Her voice shook. “I don’t want us to change.”

“We won’t.”

“But long distance changes people.”

“Maybe,” you admitted. “But not us. It might make things harder. But not worse.”

She nodded, even though you couldn’t see it. “I just feel like I’m floating through all this without you. The practices, the press, the apartment—it all feels… half real.”

“Paige,” you said, gentle, firm. “I am coming. I’m not drifting away from you. I’m just walking the longer path to the same place.”

She let the silence wrap around her.

“Say something else,” she said softly. “Just talk to me.”

You paused. “Okay… I hung up pictures in my room. There’s one of us from last spring. You’ve got your mouth full of apple slices and you’re giving me the middle finger because I said you looked like a squirrel.”

She laughed. “I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

Paige smiled, small but genuine. She pictured it. You, in your tiny off-campus apartment. Talking about her like she was still part of your day. She was. You were hers, too.

“I love you,” Paige said.

“I love you more,” you answered.

The days ticked by slower than she liked.

Some nights, she fell asleep with the phone still in her hand, your voice still echoing in her ears from a half-finished conversation. Other nights, she'd stay up scrolling through old pictures, rereading texts, listening to voicemails.

Her teammates teased her about being a hopeless romantic. About how she smiled every time your name came up. About how she always checked her phone like she was waiting for someone to come home.

And she was.

Because in six months—five, now—you would.

And when that day came, Paige knew, no amount of missed calls or empty beds would matter. Because you’d be there. You’d walk through the door with a duffel bag and a tired smile, and she'd finally feel whole again.

But until then… she’d wait.

With her phone in her hand. And your promise in her heart.

The calendar on Paige’s fridge had six weeks circled in red.

It was stupid, maybe, using a physical calendar like some suburban mom—but it grounded her. It gave shape to time that otherwise felt endless. Each “X” she scribbled through a square made the space between now and your arrival just a little smaller.

But it didn’t make the missing hurt any less.

Paige sat curled on the apartment couch, legs tucked under her, bowl of cereal in one hand, phone pressed to her cheek with the other. Her hair was still damp from practice. Her whole body ached—but nothing ached more than the space beside her on the couch.

“I got a voicemail from one of my students today,” your voice said through the speaker. “He said, ‘Miss Y/L/N, I hope you feel better because math was boring without you.’ And then he just hung up. No goodbye. Just vibes.”

Paige chuckled, staring out the window at the pink glow bleeding across the Dallas sky. “You’re their favorite.”

“They’re my favorites too. Even when they call me 'mom' by accident and pretend like it didn’t happen.”

“You do have teacher-mom energy.”

“Oh, shut up,” you said with a laugh. “You miss my teacher-mom energy.”

“Painfully.”

A beat of silence.

“I’m looking at your sweatshirt right now,” you said after a moment. “You left it in my car before you moved. I wore it to bed last night.”

That pulled a breath from Paige she didn’t know she was holding. “Did it still smell like me?”

“It did. Faintly. Like that vanilla lotion you always forget to pack on road trips.”

She smiled. “I haven’t used it since I left.”

“Save it for me?”

“Always.”

She shifted, curling tighter into herself. “Today was hard.”

“Tell me.”

“Team media stuff,” Paige mumbled. “Photos, press questions, PR meetings. They asked about goals. Stats. Leadership. Playmaking. All I could think was, none of that matters until you’re here.”

You were quiet for a moment. “I don’t want to be the reason you’re not present here, Paige.”

“You’re not. You’re the reason I am.” She pressed the heel of her hand into her eye, blinking fast. “I show up every day because I know you’ll be here soon. It’s the only thing keeping me steady.”

You exhaled softly on the other end of the line.

“I’m coming. You know that.”

“I know.”

“But you need to live this part too, babe. Not just wait for me to catch up.”

Paige looked down at the rug. Her socked toe circled the same loop in the fabric she always traced when she was anxious.

“I’m trying,” she whispered.

“I know you are,” you said, gentle and true.

She listened to your breathing—steady, familiar, comforting like a lullaby only she ever got to hear.

“I got your letter,” you said after a pause.

Her breath caught. “You did?”

“It was in my mailbox when I got home today. I read it twice. I cried.”

“Yeah?” Her throat tightened. “I wasn’t sure if I should send it.”

“I’m glad you did.” You paused. “The part where you said you wake up sometimes expecting me to be next to you… that broke me.”

“It breaks me too,” she admitted.

You went quiet, and for a second she thought maybe the call had dropped. But then you spoke, voice lower than before.

“I still sleep on my side of the bed.”

Paige’s eyes burned. “Me too.”

More silence. Not awkward—just full. Weighted. Safe.

“I’ve been drafting lesson plans on weekends,” you said eventually. “Every time I write one, I imagine grading papers at your kitchen table. Coffee beside me. You half-asleep, stealing bites of my breakfast.”

“I want that so bad,” Paige whispered. “Just… life with you.”

“You’ll have it.”

“I’m scared something’s gonna change before then.”

You were quiet. “Do you feel me changing?”

“No,” she answered immediately. “No. I feel you more than ever.”

“Then trust that.”

She let her head fall back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut. “I trust you.”

“Good,” you whispered. “Because I’m not going anywhere. Even if it feels like I’m not close yet—I am. I’m getting closer every single day.”

Paige exhaled shakily. “I need you.”

“You have me.”

It was the kind of sentence Paige wanted to wrap herself in. Warm. Safe. Whole.

“I love you,” she said.

“I love you more,” you replied. “Thirty-nine days.”

She smiled.

Thirty-nine days.

She could wait a little longer.

Paige had never looked at a calendar so obsessively in her life.

Thirteen days.

She’d circled the date in three different colors now. Red, then black, then silver Sharpie because it felt permanent. Final. Like a promise.

Thirteen days until you arrived in Dallas. Thirteen days until she wouldn’t have to fall asleep hugging a pillow that didn’t breathe. Until she wouldn’t have to whisper “I love you” to a lock screen photo anymore.

Her teammates noticed.

“You good, Bueckers?” Arike asked at practice after she botched a layup drill for the third time.

“Yeah. Just… distracted.”

DiJonai raised a brow. “Your girl coming soon?”

Paige glanced down at the court, tried to hide her smile. “Thirteen days.”

Arike let out a low whistle. “We’re about to meet the mysterious teacher girlfriend.”

“She’s real?” Maddy Siegrist joked from the sideline. “I thought y’all made her up for the plot.”

“Shut up,” Paige muttered, but she was grinning.

That night, her phone buzzed with a picture.

You. In the mirror. Hair still damp from a shower, her oversized Wings hoodie falling off one shoulder. The caption underneath said, “Borrowed this. Sorry, not sorry.”

Paige melted into her mattress.

“That’s the only crime I fully endorse.”

Then she FaceTimed you.

You answered almost immediately, face bright despite the bags under your eyes. “Hey, superstar.”

“Hey, thief.”

You smiled. “Caught me.”

“You look good in that.”

“I better. You left it behind for a reason.”

“I did,” Paige said softly. “So you’d have something to hold until I could do it myself again.”

Your face shifted, tenderness blooming at the edges of your eyes. “Two weeks.”

“Twelve days.”

You sighed, smiling into the phone like she’d pressed a kiss to your cheek through the screen. “I packed up my classroom today. Left a note on the desk for the next TA.”

Paige nodded. “It’s real now, huh?”

“It’s always been real,” you said. “But now it’s here. It’s close.”

Paige ran a hand through her hair, breath shaky. “I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“That something will go wrong. That the plane will get canceled. Or your offer will fall through. Or you’ll—”

“I’m coming,” you interrupted, firm, grounding her. “There’s no ‘what if.’ I’m coming. Eleven days and twenty hours. I counted.”

Paige stared at you for a long second.

“Come sleep on the call,” she said quietly.

You blinked. “You want me to fall asleep with you on the phone?”

“I want to hear you breathe,” she whispered. “I want to pretend the distance isn’t real for one night.”

You didn’t hesitate. “Okay.”

She propped her phone up on the pillow beside her. You did the same. It wasn’t perfect—fuzzy audio, a time delay—but it was yours. You talked about nothing for a while. What you made for dinner (pasta), the paper you were editing (some kid plagiarized a poem about dogs), your grocery list for when you moved in (cereal, way too much oat milk, frozen dumplings).

And then it got quiet.

Your voice came soft in the dark, “Ten days tomorrow.”

“I know,” Paige murmured. “It’s starting to feel real.”

“It is real.”

She reached for the screen, like touching glass could bridge miles. “I can’t wait to kiss you again.”

You let out a breath. “Don’t make me cry this late.”

“I just miss you,” Paige said, voice cracking.

“I know, baby. I miss you too.”

Seven days before you arrive, a package showed up at her door with your name scribbled across the top.

Inside was a box of school supplies—pens, Post-its, paper clips—and a hand-written note.

“Figured I should bring some of me to you before I physically can. Can’t wait to leave these all over your kitchen table. Love you always, Your favorite teacher.”

She cried for fifteen minutes after opening it

Four days before, she sat at a team dinner scrolling through your texts, tuning out everything else.

Her phone buzzed.

“T-minus 96 hours. Pack extra chapstick. You’re not escaping all the kisses I owe you.”

She nearly choked on her lemonade.

She didn’t sleep.

She lay on the couch in your sweatshirt, staring at the ceiling, heart galloping in her chest like she was waiting for Christmas morning.

The phone rang at 1:08 AM.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked.

“Nope.”

“Me neither.”

You were quiet together for a while. Then Paige whispered, “Where are you?”

You laughed. “Still in Connecticut. Bags packed. Suitcase by the door. I keep checking my flight time every ten minutes.”

“Me too,” she said. “I keep opening the guest closet to make sure I left you enough space.”

“You didn’t.”

“Guess we’ll be sharing hangers then.” A pause. “Next time I call you,” you said, “it won’t be through a screen.”

Paige closed her eyes. “I’m gonna hold you so tight.”

“I’m gonna let you.”

Two days before.

The sun in Dallas was blinding. Unreasonably bright for a city that had no idea her world was about to tilt.

Paige had just gotten home from practice, keys still in hand, backpack sliding off her shoulder when she grabbed her phone.

One new message from you.

“On the way to my last class now—remind me to tell you about the 8th grader who tried to give me a friendship bracelet today. He said it was for luck on my big move .”

She smiled. She sat on the arm of the couch and typed fast.

“That’s the cutest thing ever.”

Delivered.

No read receipt. That was fine. You were still in class.

An hour passed.

She sent another.

“Dinner’s on me when you land. I bought dumplings. Don’t fight me.”

No response.

She waited.

She called around 9 p.m.

Once. Twice.

Three rings, voicemail.

She left a message.

“Hey, you okay? I know you’ve probably got a million things going on—boxes, checklists, last-minute goodbyes—but… just call me when you get a second, okay? I just want to hear your voice.”

She kept her phone next to her pillow that night, volume up, screen brightness high.

Nothing.

One day before.

The silence clung to her.

She woke with a headache, heart already racing, the cold side of the bed feeling like an accusation.

Still nothing from you.

Paige rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling.

“This is fine,” she whispered to herself. “You’re just busy. You’re probably with your family. Maybe your phone died.”

She called again.

Straight to voicemail.

She texted.

“I’m starting to worry. Just… send me a thumbs up or anything. Please.”

Nothing.

She paced the apartment, uneaten toast still on her plate, coffee gone cold in her mug.

That night, she sat on the kitchen floor in front of the fridge, phone in her lap, eyes red.

“Where are you?” “Baby, please.” “Just tell me you're okay.” “I don’t care if you’re not getting on the plane. I just need to know you're okay.”

She didn’t sleep.

Just stared at the wall.

The day of.

She cleaned the apartment top to bottom.

She couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t cry again.

You were supposed to land at 4:27 p.m.

She stared at the time on her screen—4:00… 4:15… 4:27… 4:40.

No call. No knock at the door. No text.

She scrolled to the airport’s arrival board online. Typed your flight number. Watched it switch from Scheduled to Landed.

Still nothing.

She picked up her phone again. Shaking fingers. Dialed.

Voicemail.

She left one anyway, voice cracking.

“Please don’t do this to me. Please. Just… I need you. I need to know if you’re—if you’re safe. If you changed your mind, I’ll understand. I swear, I’ll understand. Just don’t let it end like this. Not in silence.”

She hung up.

Then slumped down against the front door and broke.

Her body folded over itself. Sobs racked through her like her heart had forgotten how to beat without yours to match it. She stayed there, curled up, whispering your name like a prayer.

She didn’t turn the lights on.

She sat in the dark with your hoodie balled up in her arms and her phone still in her hand.

Her last text read, “I’ll wait by the door.”

But she never heard the knock.

Paige sat on the apartment floor again, back pressed against the kitchen cabinets. The tile was cold beneath her legs. She hadn’t eaten more than toast in 36 hours.

The dumplings were still in the freezer. She hadn’t touched them. Couldn’t.

She refreshed her texts.

Still no read receipts. Still no dots. Still no “Delivered” beneath her messages.

She called again.

Straight to voicemail.

She whispered into the silence like maybe this time the void would answer her.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” she said. “I don’t know if you’re ghosting me or if you’re gone. Please—please—just give me something. Let me hate you. Let me worry. Just don’t let me do both.”

She hung up. Laid down. Didn’t move.

She went to practice. No one said anything until the third missed shot in a row.

“Yo,” Arike called out. “You good, Paige?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just wiped sweat from her brow and threw the ball at the nearest rack.

“Fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I said I’m fine,” Paige snapped, sharper than she meant to. Her voice echoed off the gym walls like a slap.

Her teammates exchanged looks.

“Alright,” Nai said as they walked out of the locker room. “Spill. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Try again.”

Paige exhaled, shoulders slumped. “She was supposed to be here. Three days ago.”

Nai paused. “Wait—your girl? She didn’t come?”

“No call. No text. No voicemail. Nothing.”

Nai’s face softened. “Shit, Paige…”

“I don’t even know if she’s alive.”

“Have you… talked to anyone? Like, her friends, her mom—?”

“She’s private about that. Her family… it’s complicated.”

Nai hesitated. “Did she ever give any signs that she wouldn’t come?”

“No.” Paige blinked hard. “She was excited. We planned everything down to the shelf space. She sent me a letter. She told me she was counting hours. And now it’s just—gone.”

Nai put a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll figure it out.”

Paige flinched. “What if there’s nothing to figure out?”

Nai didn’t answer that.

The team had an off day.

Paige didn’t leave bed.

She watched your old videos on her phone—the ones you sent her when you used to stay up late decorating your classroom or making grilled cheese while dancing around your kitchen.

She watched them on loop until her phone died.

And then she just laid there, eyes burning.

Maddy brought takeout over.

“You need to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I didn’t ask.”

They sat in silence on the couch. Paige pushed rice around her plate without lifting the fork once.

Maddy glanced at her. “Is there any chance she—like, she couldn’t call?”

Paige’s voice cracked. “I don’t know. I’ve thought of everything. Every possibility. Car accident. No service. Anxiety. Cold feet. But it’s been over a week.”

“Have you heard anything?”

Paige shook her head. “Her phone goes straight to voicemail. Her email bounced. Her socials are dark. It’s like she fell off the planet.”

“Bueckers…”

“I keep checking the door,” Paige whispered. “I know she’s not coming, but I can’t help it. I still wake up thinking I’ll hear her keys.”

Maddy’s voice went soft. “You really loved her, huh?”

Paige nodded, eyes shining. “Still do.”

The media started noticing.

Her stats dropped. Her answers got shorter. Smiles didn’t reach her eyes.

In a post-practice interview, someone asked, “Everything okay off the court?”

She blinked, stunned into stillness.

Then nodded once.

But when she got back to the locker room, she cried into her jersey until her shoulders shook and her breath hitched and she didn’t know how to stop.

She texted you again.

“It’s been almost two weeks. Please. I’m not mad. I just need to know if you’re okay. I won’t ask anything else. Just… say something. Anything.”

She stared at the screen for hours.

Nothing.

She scrolled through every old message. Every photo. Every “I love you more.” Every kiss emoji. Every half-finished voice memo you never sent but saved for later.

She played one on loop.

“God, I can’t wait to be there. To be home. With you.”

And then, when her hands couldn’t stop shaking, she recorded one of her own. She didn’t know if it would ever be heard. But she sent it anyway.

“Hey. It’s Paige. I guess this is… my last message. I don’t know if you’re out there, or if you changed your mind, or if something happened and you’re too scared to tell me. But I still love you. And I always will. No matter what.”

She hit send.

And this time, she didn’t wait for the three dots to appear.

There was a new voicemail on Paige’s phone.

Not from you.

Just a spam number, something about her car warranty.

She deleted it without listening.

Your name—your entire thread—was now buried in her messages. She hadn’t opened it in four days. Not because she didn’t care. Because she couldn’t.

Every time she saw it, her stomach clenched. Not from love. From loss.

You had disappeared 25 days ago.

She used to count the days with hope. Now it just felt like proof that people vanish. Even the ones who swore they’d never leave.

Her texts to you had slowed. At first they’d been frantic—ten a day, calls at every hour. Then five a day. Then one. Then every few days.

Now? Nothing in almost a week.

She didn’t even cry anymore.

She just… lived.

Empty. Quiet. Going through the motions.

Practice was quiet. No jokes. No trash talk. Just the dull thud of the ball against hardwood and the squeak of sneakers she barely registered anymore.

Her shooting percentage had dropped 8%.

The coaching staff hadn’t said anything yet, but she could feel it. The stares. The sighs. The weight of eyes tracking her when they thought she wasn’t looking.

After practice, she sat on the locker room bench for ten minutes too long, staring at the wall like it might say something. Like you used to.

She pulled out her phone.

No new messages. No calls.

She scrolled to your contact anyway. Just to see it. Just to remind herself that once, there was a world where your name lit up her screen like sunlight.

She closed the app.

Went home.

Didn’t even shower.

Her phone rang.

She was mid-laundry, a damp towel slung over one arm, the apartment humid from the dryer running too long.

She didn’t check it immediately. Assumed it was Nai or maybe Coach.

It rang again.

She glanced over.

Paused.

Your name.

Your contact photo—the one she took on a lazy spring day, you in her hoodie, your cheeks pink from sun and laughter.

She froze. The call kept ringing. Her thumb hovered. She didn’t move. She just watched it ring. Watched it buzz against the counter like it hadn’t been silent for a month.

Then she let it stop. Didn’t touch it. Didn’t breathe. The screen went dark. She stood still for a long time. It rang again. Same name. Same photo. Same ringtone she hadn’t changed since the day you set it for yourself.

But this time, something cracked in her chest—not a sob, not panic. Just anger. Cold, bitter, exhausted anger.

You didn’t get to vanish for four weeks and come back like nothing happened. You didn’t get to disappear and then dial her number like it was safe to do so. You didn’t get to decide when she hurt. She watched it ring again. Didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

She whispered into the silence, voice flat, “You don’t get to do this to me.”

Then the call ended. And the phone was quiet again. And she sat down on the kitchen floor like she had the first night you didn’t show up. But this time, she didn’t cry. This time, she just turned the phone over, face down.

Let the silence reclaim the room.

The lights at Target Center always made Paige feel electric.

It was different being back here—being home. But nothing about tonight felt comforting.

She was sharp in warmups. Crisp. Clean. Cold. Her jumper was falling like clockwork. Her footwork flawless. Her body obeyed in a way her heart hadn’t for weeks.

She was pissed.

And she was going to take it out on the court.

Fans were already filling in as she paced the baseline, headphones slung around her neck, eyes unfocused as she dribbled through sets.

And then—she saw her.

Your mom.

Sitting alone. Courtside. Seat 3A. The one you said was your favorite seat cause you could watch her without getting blocked by other people.

She was smaller than Paige remembered. Or maybe just older. Her coat was folded neatly in her lap, hands clutching it like it could keep her together.

Paige’s heart stuttered.

She looked away.

Kept warming up.

Refused to let herself feel anything.

Not now. Not after four weeks of unanswered calls. Not after those two rings she let pass without lifting a finger.

She buried the sight of her behind a wall of rage. Let her heartbeat sync with the squeak of shoes, the thud of the ball, the echo of her name being announced with fire in the intro video.

And when the game started?

She was unreal.

Floaters. Crossovers. Mid-range pull-ups that never touched the rim.

By halftime, she had 18 points and 5 assists.

By the end of the third quarter, 27 points, 3 steals, and the crowd was roaring every time she touched the ball.

She didn’t crack. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

Not until the final buzzer sounded.

Not until she saw your mom again.

Still there. Still alone.

Waiting.

She pulled her warmup jacket on and started walking toward the tunnel, jaw tight, jaw locked.

“Paige.” She didn’t stop. “Paige, please.”

No.

No.

She kept walking. One foot in front of the other.

“She didn’t break her promise to you.”

That made her pause.

Your mom’s voice cracked through the noise like a crack in glass.

“She didn’t leave you.”

Paige’s breath caught.

She turned—slow, deliberate.

Your mom was standing now, gripping the railing, eyes already shining with tears.

“She was coming to you,” she whispered. “She never stopped loving you.”

“What did you just say?” Paige’s voice was a whisper.

The older woman’s lips trembled. “Can we… Can we talk somewhere else?”

Paige didn’t respond.

Just reached for her, fingers numb, and pulled her through the tunnel, past a stunned PR intern, down the hallway.

Into the locker room.

Empty.

Silent.

She shut the door behind them. Locked it.

Turned around.

“Say it again,” she said. Not a request. A plea.

Your mother stared at her, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. Her voice was barely there.

“She was on her way to Dallas,” she said. “She left two days early. Wanted to surprise you.”

Paige didn’t move.

“She was so excited. She couldn’t stop smiling. Said she wanted to be there when you got home from practice, said she couldn’t wait another day. She didn’t even tell me. I found the note on the kitchen table.”

Paige’s knees buckled.

She caught herself on the edge of a bench. “No,” she whispered.

“She got in the car that morning. Early. She never made it to the airport.”

Her heart stopped.

“She was hit by a semi on I-95. Fog was thick. The driver didn’t see her. She died on impact.”

Paige didn’t breathe. Couldn’t.

Your mother’s eyes filled again. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t know—how to reach you. I didn’t have your number, not anymore. I tried social media, but…”

“You didn’t call the team?” Paige’s voice was raw.

“I tried, but they didn’t believe me.”

Paige’s hands were shaking.

Your mother took a slow step forward. “She had gifts in the car. Her famous dumplings. Your favorite lotion. And a sweatshirt she swore would make you cry. She had this whole plan. She wanted to sneak in and wait on your couch.”

Paige let out a broken laugh. “That sounds like her.”

“She loved you so much.”

“I know,” Paige whispered, the first tear falling. “I know.”

And then she couldn’t stop them.

They came all at once—weeks of confusion, silence, fury, grief—crashing over her like a wave she never saw coming.

She sobbed into her hands, whole body trembling.

“She said she was coming,” Paige cried. “I waited. I waited so long.”

Your mother stepped forward, slowly, and sat beside her. She didn’t speak. Just reached for Paige’s hand.

It was cold. Small. Familiar.

“She tried,” she said.

That was all.

And it was everything.

That night, Paige didn’t go out with the team. Didn’t talk to media. Didn’t even turn on the lights when she got back to her hotel room.

She laid in bed, clutching her phone.

Opened your last message—the one with the bracelet story.

She read it over and over until her eyes blurred.

Then she opened her voicemails. The one you never got to hear.

She hit play.

And for the first time, she let herself believe you heard it after all.

The rest of the Wings flew back to Dallas the next morning.

Paige didn’t.

She sent a text to her coach. “I need a few more days. I’ll explain when I can.” She didn’t get a reply, just three dots. “Take your time. We’ve got you.”

Your mother offered her the guest room without hesitation.

But Paige couldn’t sleep.

She sat in your driveway for almost half an hour before walking inside, her duffel bag untouched in the trunk. The porch creaked the same way it had in high school. The air smelled like cinnamon and old books. The light in the hallway still flickered if you walked too fast.

The house felt like it had been paused mid-laugh.

Your mother gave her a quiet smile. “You can go up if you want.”

Paige hesitated at the stairs.

“I haven’t changed a thing,” she added.

Paige nodded.

And climbed.

Each step was an echo.

Your bedroom door was half-closed.

She pushed it open slowly, like the room might wake up.

It looked exactly the same.

The posters. The scuffed desk. The stack of books under your windowsill. The UConn flag pinned above your bed from the day you got your acceptance letter.

It felt like walking into a snow globe—perfectly preserved, terrifyingly still.

Her legs moved without permission. She stood in the center of the room, eyes darting from corner to corner.

There was the dent in the wall where you’d knocked your chair back too far trying to recreate a TikTok dance.

There was the blanket she gave you senior year—navy blue, your name and hers stitched into the corner like some inside joke you never explained to anyone else.

There was your old lanyard, still hanging from the doorknob.

And then her eyes landed on it.

The photo frame on your nightstand.

It was them.

Her and you.

From sophomore year.

Both in hoodies, half-asleep on your porch swing. She was leaning into you, your arm around her, eyes closed. You were laughing—head tilted, light spilling from you like a secret the world didn’t deserve.

She staggered forward.

Knees hit the side of the bed.

She picked up the frame with trembling hands. Traced your face with her thumb. Pressed it to her chest like it was the only part of you left.

That’s when it broke.

All of it.

The strength. The waiting. The hope. The disbelief.

She collapsed onto your bed in sobs that felt like thunder.

Big, gasping, shoulder-racking sobs.

“Why,” she cried into your pillow, voice muffled, raw. “Why didn’t I pick you up myself? Why didn’t I call more? Send someone? Why wasn’t I there?”

The pillow soaked beneath her. Your scent still faint.

She curled into it like it could answer her.

“God, you were right there. You were coming to me—early. And I didn’t—I didn’t even get to see you.”

The photo dropped from her hand and landed face-up beside her.

Her tears made the glass shimmer.

She pressed her cheek to it.

“Come back,” she whispered. “Please, baby. I don’t know how to live without you.”

She stayed there for what felt like hours.

Maybe it was.

No one came to check. Your mother didn’t knock. She must’ve known—must’ve felt it.

Paige eventually sat up, wiped her eyes on your sweatshirt still folded at the foot of your bed.

Her voice was wrecked when she finally whispered, “I never stopped waiting for you.”

And maybe she never would.

The cemetery was quiet.

The kind of quiet that made you feel like time had paused just long enough for the earth to breathe.

It was a cool, overcast morning—no sun, no shadows. Just that still, aching gray that matched the way Paige’s heart had felt since the moment she heard the words "she was on her way to surprise you."

Your mother had told her where to go.

Plot 47. Near the far oak. The one that turns red the first in fall.

The walk from the parking lot was long.

Paige carried a bouquet in one hand—sunflowers and dahlias, wrapped in twine. You always said they looked like fireworks made out of joy. She never forgot that.

Her other hand stayed tucked in her jacket pocket, fingers curled tight like she might fall apart if she let them open.

When she reached your grave, she just stood.

Still.

Frozen.

Your name was etched in marble now. Sharp, clean lettering. Birth year. Dash. End year.

Too soon. So unfairly soon.

Beneath it, a line she recognized.

She loved loudly. She laughed often. She never said goodbye without meaning it.

Paige bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.

She knelt slowly. Placed the flowers at the base. Adjusted them twice, even though they were already perfect.

And then she sat.

Cross-legged on the grass.

Facing you.

“I thought I’d have more time,” she said quietly.

The breeze stirred the petals.

“I thought you’d walk into my apartment two days early and I’d laugh and tell you you were crazy for not telling me. I thought we’d fight about cabinet space. I thought I’d kiss you every night for the rest of my life.”

She swallowed hard.

“But instead… I’m sitting here. And this is the first time I’ve seen your name in stone.”

A pause.

“I was angry. Your mom called me after a month of silence and I was angry. I didn’t know you were on your way to me. I didn’t know you never made it.”

She looked down, hands clenched in her lap.

“I thought you left me.”

Her breath trembled.

“I didn’t know you were trying to come home.”

She looked up at the sky.

“I would’ve waited at the airport all day if I had known. I would’ve driven to Minnesota and brought you myself. I would’ve done anything, anything, to see you one more time.”

Her jaw tensed. Eyes shined with fresh tears.

“I still talk to you. Every night. I sleep in your hoodie. I make coffee and pour two mugs like an idiot.”

She wiped her face with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

“The team doesn’t ask anymore. I think they’re scared of breaking me. But I’ve already been broken.”

She took a breath.

“But I’m still here.”

The wind picked up. Rustled the oak leaves above.

“I went back to your bedroom,” Paige said. “It looked exactly the same. Like you were just at school and would be home by dinner.”

She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a small laminated photo—the same one that had sat on your nightstand. The one of the two of you from sophomore year. She laid it gently between the flowers and the stone.

“I wanted to leave this with you,” she said. “Because even if I have to move forward, I’m not leaving you. You’re still the best part of me.”

A gust of wind blew through the grass. Paige looked down.

Her voice dropped, barely audible.

“I love you,” she whispered. “And I always will.”

She sat there for a long time.

Telling you about her next game. About the dumplings she finally cooked. About the song that made her think of you last week and how she cried in the car on the way to practice.

She stayed until the sun started peeking out again. Until the clouds began to thin and the shadows returned.

Then she stood. Pressed two fingers to her lips. Then to your name.

And walked away.

The flowers swayed in the breeze behind her.

The picture stayed.

You stayed.

The cheers were deafening.

It was the second round of the playoffs. Dallas had clawed their way in, and now they were clawing their way forward. The whole arena stood as Paige walked toward center court, Rookie of the Year graphic blazing behind her.

Bright lights. Brighter smile.

But behind that smile, a tremor.

She hadn’t slept much the night before. Not because of nerves. But because the one person she wanted to share this with wasn’t there.

Would never be there again.

She stepped forward, hands steady despite the storm inside her. Her name echoed from the speakers. “2025 WNBA Rookie of the Year… Paige Bueckers!”

Applause.

Spotlights.

Cameras flashing.

A league rep handed her the trophy—sleek, metallic, engraved. Her fingers curled around it automatically. Like she was on autopilot.

She turned to the mic.

The crowd quieted.

Her voice started strong.

“Um… wow. This means the world. First of all, thank you to the league, my teammates, my coaches. The Dallas Wings believed in me the second they drafted me, and I hope I’ve made them proud.”

More cheers.

She smiled faintly.

“I want to thank my family. My friends. The fans. And my hometown—Hopkins, I love you.”

More applause.

Then a pause.

She glanced down at the trophy in her hand. Her fingers tightened.

Her voice softened.

“But… there’s someone else I need to thank.”

The arena stilled.

Paige’s throat bobbed.

“She… she should’ve been here. And she almost was.”

The crowd hushed.

Paige blinked up at the rafters like she was asking for strength from a sky that still felt too far away.

“She was the first person who told me I was going to make it here. She saw this moment before I did. She believed in me when I was tired. She reminded me why I loved this game when I couldn’t feel it.”

She looked directly into the camera.

“Thank you for loving me. For believing in me. For being the kindest, brightest part of my life. This award… I share it with you. I dedicate it to you.”

A single tear slid down her cheek.

“You didn’t make it to the game. But you made me. Every piece of me. So I carry you every time I step on this court.”

The crowd began clapping—slow, quiet. Then stronger. Louder.

Rising like a wave.

Paige stepped back from the mic.

She raised the trophy once. Small, solemn.

And whispered, not into the microphone, but just to the air.

“I hope you’re proud of me.”

The cemetery was quiet again.

Autumn had arrived. The oak tree beside your grave had started to turn—flaming reds and soft oranges bleeding down through the branches like a slow goodbye.

Paige walked the familiar path in silence.

No cameras. No team. No PR handlers. No trophy case.

Just her.

And the small velvet-lined box tucked under her arm.

She wore your hoodie. It still smelled faintly like your shampoo. It was a little too worn now, the cuffs fraying. But it was hers. And it had been yours. And that made it holy.

When she reached your grave, she knelt.

The headstone hadn’t changed. Still your name. Still that cruel little dash between two years that weren’t enough. Still that line.

She never said goodbye without meaning it.

Paige set the box down beside the sunflowers and dahlias she’d brought. The same flowers she always did.

She didn’t open the box right away.

Just stared at your name. Let the wind brush over her face. Let the silence wrap around her like a question with no answer.

“I said I’d bring it to you,” she whispered eventually.

Her fingers found the edges of the velvet. She lifted the lid.

Inside was her Rookie of the Year trophy—well, a replica. The league had sent a second version when they needed to display the original. She didn’t correct them. She was glad for it.

Because this one was for you.

She picked it up gently. Placed it against the stone.

“This was yours before it was mine,” she said. “You trained me in the off-seasons. You studied game tape with me. You kept me grounded when I got caught in my own head.”

She exhaled. It sounded like surrender.

“I know I said the words in my speech. But I needed to say them here.”

A leaf drifted down between them.

She smiled faintly.

“I miss you every day. I talk to you before every game. I look for your face in every crowd. I still text you sometimes. Even though I know the only place I can send anything now… is here.”

She touched the trophy. Then the top edge of your headstone.

“I hope wherever you are, you’re still loud. Still laughing. Still correcting my form from the sidelines and making fun of how dramatic I get during interviews.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away.

“I won, baby,” she whispered. “And it should’ve been us holding this together.”

Her voice dropped to something barely audible.

“But I’m still holding it for both of us.”

She leaned forward. Pressed a kiss to the marble.

And then sat beside your grave. Not in mourning.

But in memory.

She stayed until the sky turned pink behind the trees.

Then stood.

One last look at the trophy. At the stone. At the name she loved more than her own.

“I’ll be back,” she said. “That’s a promise.”

And when she walked away, the wind rustled the leaves—gentle, soft, as if the trees themselves whispered back.

I know.

[uncuredturkeybacon]

inhale and exhale

𝚜𝚒𝚡 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚜 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which love never ends

The sun filtered in through the half-closed blinds of Paige’s dorm room, casting soft strips of light across the hardwood floor. The room was half-packed—open boxes lined the bed, shoes spilling over the edge, books stacked in leaning towers by the door. A half-empty closet loomed in the corner like a reminder of all the time that had passed and how little of it was left.

You stood near her desk, folding up a Wings hoodie that had been sent in the mail last week, her name stitched in bold on the sleeve.

“She really said number one pick,” you teased gently, holding it up like a trophy.

Paige, sitting cross-legged on her bed, looked up at you and grinned. “She really did. Can you believe that?”

“No,” you said, smile twitching at the corner of your mouth. “But I’m proud of her anyway.”

She tilted her head, her smile dimming into something quieter, more thoughtful. “I’m scared.”

You didn’t answer right away. You folded the hoodie neatly and placed it in the open suitcase at the edge of her bed, smoothing it down like it was fragile.

“I know,” you said softly.

“It’s not the game,” she clarified, glancing at you like she needed you to understand. “I’m not scared about basketball. I’m scared of going without you.”

You walked over and sat beside her, one foot tucked under your knee, your shoulder brushing hers.

“I’ll be there,” you said, firm, not flinching.

Paige leaned her head against your shoulder. “Six months feels like a long time.”

“It’s really not.”

“It feels like it.”

You rested your hand on her thigh, fingers curling just slightly into the fabric of her sweats. She was wearing your high school tee—old and oversized, faded from too many washes. You had given it to her years ago when she’d stolen it after a sleepover and never gave it back. You never asked her to.

“You have a whole season to get through,” you said gently. “I have students to teach and finals to grade and middle schoolers to keep from launching glue sticks at each other. It’ll go fast.”

Paige let out a small breath of laughter. “You really want to be a teacher, huh?”

“I already am. I’m a TA now, remember?” you bumped your shoulder against hers. “And I’ve already got my offer letter. Same school district my mom used to work in. Orientation’s the week after graduation.”

She turned toward you, eyes soft and serious. “That’s incredible.”

“You’re incredible,” you said before you could stop yourself.

Paige blinked, looking down like she needed to hide how fast she blushed. She always got like that when you said things too directly. Too honestly.

She didn’t say anything for a moment.

Then, her voice barely above a whisper, “Are you really gonna come to Dallas?”

You turned toward her fully, one leg sliding off the bed to ground yourself. “Yes.”

“You promise?”

You reached for her hand, threading your fingers together. “I promise.”

Her bottom lip quivered just slightly, and she bit down on it like she could swallow the emotion before it broke the surface.

“You’re not just saying that to make it easier.”

“No, Paige. I mean it.” You squeezed her hand. “Six months from now, I’ll be there. I’ll be in your apartment, probably fighting you for closet space and making you pasta after away games.”

She smiled, even as her eyes welled with tears. “You can’t cook.”

“I’m learning. I made that chicken stir fry last week.”

“That was microwaved chicken stir fry.”

“Still counts.”

She laughed through her tears, leaning in to press her forehead to yours. “God, I love you.”

You closed your eyes. “I love you too.”

There were things you didn’t say—like how terrified you were of her leaving, how the thought of waking up alone in your own dorm made your chest ache. How hard it would be to fall asleep without her cold feet pressing against your calves or her late-night whispered rants about practice drills.

But you also didn’t say how proud you were watching her step into this next chapter. You didn’t need to.

Instead, you kissed her—slow, lingering, full of everything you couldn’t fit into words. When you pulled away, her eyes stayed closed like she was memorizing the shape of your mouth.

“You’ll call?” she whispered.

“Every night,” you said. “Even if it’s just to hear you breathe.”

“That’s weird,” she teased.

“That’s love.”

She leaned into your chest, burying her face in your neck, and you held her. You didn’t move for a long time.

When she left for the airport the next morning, her fingers gripped yours until the last possible moment. You kissed her like you were writing a promise into her mouth. Six months, you told her again. You’ll be there in six months.

And as she stepped through the terminal gate, looking back at you with tears in her eyes and her Wings hoodie pulled tight around her, you smiled through your own heartbreak.

Because you meant it.

And because some promises don’t need reminders.

They just need time.

Dallas felt bigger than it looked on a map.

Everything about it—traffic, heat, even the sky—seemed stretched, like someone had pulled the edges of a familiar world just far enough to make it unrecognizable.

Paige sat alone on the living room floor of her new apartment, a half-unpacked box of plates beside her and a phone balanced on her knee. Her wallpaper was still a photo of you— blurry, mid-laugh, sitting cross-legged in the grass at a park. It was from a late spring picnic, right before you both had to pretend you weren’t about to say goodbye.

She stared at the screen like it might blink and bring you back.

You answered after the third ring, your voice a little breathless. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Paige whispered. It came out softer than she meant. Her chest ached.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” you asked.

“No. Just… sitting.”

“On the floor?”

“Yeah. I don’t know where my couch screws went. I might be living a cushion life for a while.”

You laughed—real, warm, familiar. Paige closed her eyes and let it coat the inside of her ribs.

“That’s kind of poetic,” you said. “Starting your WNBA career on the floor of an empty apartment.”

“Feels more pathetic than poetic.”

“No. I like it. It’s humble.”

Paige exhaled, and her voice cracked just slightly. “I miss you.”

The line was quiet for a second. Then you spoke, your voice gentler. “I miss you too.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. “I keep forgetting you’re not ten minutes away. Like today, I had a good practice, and my first thought was ‘I’m gonna stop by your place and tell you everything.’ And then I remembered.”

“I know,” you said. “I do that too.”

“I drove past a coffee shop the other day and almost walked in just to see if you’d be there. Even though you’ve never even been to Texas.”

You smiled, she could hear it. “You’re thinking of the one near Gampel, huh?”

“Yeah.” She swallowed. “The one where you studied and I’d show up pretending I needed help with nutrition class.”

“You did need help.”

“Whatever. It worked.”

She leaned her head back against the wall and looked around at the blank space surrounding her. The moving truck had come and gone. The furniture was in, but the soul of the apartment hadn’t arrived yet.

It was still missing you.

“How’s school?” she asked.

“Chaotic,” you replied. “One of the kids asked me today if people in the ‘old times’ had internet. I said, ‘Define old.’ He said, ‘Like 2005.’”

Paige laughed, shaking her head. “Rude.”

“I’m ancient now,” you said. “Twenty-two and deteriorating.”

“You better still have the strength to carry all your stuff up three flights when you get here.”

“Oh, I do. I’m saving it all up for the move.”

Her smile faltered. “You’re still coming, right?”

You went quiet again. Not hesitant—just letting it settle, weighty and certain.

“Of course I am.”

Paige closed her eyes. “Promise?”

“I already did.”

“I just…” Her voice trailed. “It’s hard. Not hearing your keys in the door. Not getting to see your face at the end of the day. I love my team, I really do—but they’re not you.”

“I’m not replacing anyone,” you said. “Just adding to it.”

She let that sit with her. “I want you here so bad it hurts sometimes.”

“I know,” you whispered. “Me too.”

Her voice shook. “I don’t want us to change.”

“We won’t.”

“But long distance changes people.”

“Maybe,” you admitted. “But not us. It might make things harder. But not worse.”

She nodded, even though you couldn’t see it. “I just feel like I’m floating through all this without you. The practices, the press, the apartment—it all feels… half real.”

“Paige,” you said, gentle, firm. “I am coming. I’m not drifting away from you. I’m just walking the longer path to the same place.”

She let the silence wrap around her.

“Say something else,” she said softly. “Just talk to me.”

You paused. “Okay… I hung up pictures in my room. There’s one of us from last spring. You’ve got your mouth full of apple slices and you’re giving me the middle finger because I said you looked like a squirrel.”

She laughed. “I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

Paige smiled, small but genuine. She pictured it. You, in your tiny off-campus apartment. Talking about her like she was still part of your day. She was. You were hers, too.

“I love you,” Paige said.

“I love you more,” you answered.

The days ticked by slower than she liked.

Some nights, she fell asleep with the phone still in her hand, your voice still echoing in her ears from a half-finished conversation. Other nights, she'd stay up scrolling through old pictures, rereading texts, listening to voicemails.

Her teammates teased her about being a hopeless romantic. About how she smiled every time your name came up. About how she always checked her phone like she was waiting for someone to come home.

And she was.

Because in six months—five, now—you would.

And when that day came, Paige knew, no amount of missed calls or empty beds would matter. Because you’d be there. You’d walk through the door with a duffel bag and a tired smile, and she'd finally feel whole again.

But until then… she’d wait.

With her phone in her hand. And your promise in her heart.

The calendar on Paige’s fridge had six weeks circled in red.

It was stupid, maybe, using a physical calendar like some suburban mom—but it grounded her. It gave shape to time that otherwise felt endless. Each “X” she scribbled through a square made the space between now and your arrival just a little smaller.

But it didn’t make the missing hurt any less.

Paige sat curled on the apartment couch, legs tucked under her, bowl of cereal in one hand, phone pressed to her cheek with the other. Her hair was still damp from practice. Her whole body ached—but nothing ached more than the space beside her on the couch.

“I got a voicemail from one of my students today,” your voice said through the speaker. “He said, ‘Miss Y/L/N, I hope you feel better because math was boring without you.’ And then he just hung up. No goodbye. Just vibes.”

Paige chuckled, staring out the window at the pink glow bleeding across the Dallas sky. “You’re their favorite.”

“They’re my favorites too. Even when they call me 'mom' by accident and pretend like it didn’t happen.”

“You do have teacher-mom energy.”

“Oh, shut up,” you said with a laugh. “You miss my teacher-mom energy.”

“Painfully.”

A beat of silence.

“I’m looking at your sweatshirt right now,” you said after a moment. “You left it in my car before you moved. I wore it to bed last night.”

That pulled a breath from Paige she didn’t know she was holding. “Did it still smell like me?”

“It did. Faintly. Like that vanilla lotion you always forget to pack on road trips.”

She smiled. “I haven’t used it since I left.”

“Save it for me?”

“Always.”

She shifted, curling tighter into herself. “Today was hard.”

“Tell me.”

“Team media stuff,” Paige mumbled. “Photos, press questions, PR meetings. They asked about goals. Stats. Leadership. Playmaking. All I could think was, none of that matters until you’re here.”

You were quiet for a moment. “I don’t want to be the reason you’re not present here, Paige.”

“You’re not. You’re the reason I am.” She pressed the heel of her hand into her eye, blinking fast. “I show up every day because I know you’ll be here soon. It’s the only thing keeping me steady.”

You exhaled softly on the other end of the line.

“I’m coming. You know that.”

“I know.”

“But you need to live this part too, babe. Not just wait for me to catch up.”

Paige looked down at the rug. Her socked toe circled the same loop in the fabric she always traced when she was anxious.

“I’m trying,” she whispered.

“I know you are,” you said, gentle and true.

She listened to your breathing—steady, familiar, comforting like a lullaby only she ever got to hear.

“I got your letter,” you said after a pause.

Her breath caught. “You did?”

“It was in my mailbox when I got home today. I read it twice. I cried.”

“Yeah?” Her throat tightened. “I wasn’t sure if I should send it.”

“I’m glad you did.” You paused. “The part where you said you wake up sometimes expecting me to be next to you… that broke me.”

“It breaks me too,” she admitted.

You went quiet, and for a second she thought maybe the call had dropped. But then you spoke, voice lower than before.

“I still sleep on my side of the bed.”

Paige’s eyes burned. “Me too.”

More silence. Not awkward—just full. Weighted. Safe.

“I’ve been drafting lesson plans on weekends,” you said eventually. “Every time I write one, I imagine grading papers at your kitchen table. Coffee beside me. You half-asleep, stealing bites of my breakfast.”

“I want that so bad,” Paige whispered. “Just… life with you.”

“You’ll have it.”

“I’m scared something’s gonna change before then.”

You were quiet. “Do you feel me changing?”

“No,” she answered immediately. “No. I feel you more than ever.”

“Then trust that.”

She let her head fall back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut. “I trust you.”

“Good,” you whispered. “Because I’m not going anywhere. Even if it feels like I’m not close yet—I am. I’m getting closer every single day.”

Paige exhaled shakily. “I need you.”

“You have me.”

It was the kind of sentence Paige wanted to wrap herself in. Warm. Safe. Whole.

“I love you,” she said.

“I love you more,” you replied. “Thirty-nine days.”

She smiled.

Thirty-nine days.

She could wait a little longer.

Paige had never looked at a calendar so obsessively in her life.

Thirteen days.

She’d circled the date in three different colors now. Red, then black, then silver Sharpie because it felt permanent. Final. Like a promise.

Thirteen days until you arrived in Dallas. Thirteen days until she wouldn’t have to fall asleep hugging a pillow that didn’t breathe. Until she wouldn’t have to whisper “I love you” to a lock screen photo anymore.

Her teammates noticed.

“You good, Bueckers?” Arike asked at practice after she botched a layup drill for the third time.

“Yeah. Just… distracted.”

DiJonai raised a brow. “Your girl coming soon?”

Paige glanced down at the court, tried to hide her smile. “Thirteen days.”

Arike let out a low whistle. “We’re about to meet the mysterious teacher girlfriend.”

“She’s real?” Maddy Siegrist joked from the sideline. “I thought y’all made her up for the plot.”

“Shut up,” Paige muttered, but she was grinning.

That night, her phone buzzed with a picture.

You. In the mirror. Hair still damp from a shower, her oversized Wings hoodie falling off one shoulder. The caption underneath said, “Borrowed this. Sorry, not sorry.”

Paige melted into her mattress.

“That’s the only crime I fully endorse.”

Then she FaceTimed you.

You answered almost immediately, face bright despite the bags under your eyes. “Hey, superstar.”

“Hey, thief.”

You smiled. “Caught me.”

“You look good in that.”

“I better. You left it behind for a reason.”

“I did,” Paige said softly. “So you’d have something to hold until I could do it myself again.”

Your face shifted, tenderness blooming at the edges of your eyes. “Two weeks.”

“Twelve days.”

You sighed, smiling into the phone like she’d pressed a kiss to your cheek through the screen. “I packed up my classroom today. Left a note on the desk for the next TA.”

Paige nodded. “It’s real now, huh?”

“It’s always been real,” you said. “But now it’s here. It’s close.”

Paige ran a hand through her hair, breath shaky. “I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“That something will go wrong. That the plane will get canceled. Or your offer will fall through. Or you’ll—”

“I’m coming,” you interrupted, firm, grounding her. “There’s no ‘what if.’ I’m coming. Eleven days and twenty hours. I counted.”

Paige stared at you for a long second.

“Come sleep on the call,” she said quietly.

You blinked. “You want me to fall asleep with you on the phone?”

“I want to hear you breathe,” she whispered. “I want to pretend the distance isn’t real for one night.”

You didn’t hesitate. “Okay.”

She propped her phone up on the pillow beside her. You did the same. It wasn’t perfect—fuzzy audio, a time delay—but it was yours. You talked about nothing for a while. What you made for dinner (pasta), the paper you were editing (some kid plagiarized a poem about dogs), your grocery list for when you moved in (cereal, way too much oat milk, frozen dumplings).

And then it got quiet.

Your voice came soft in the dark, “Ten days tomorrow.”

“I know,” Paige murmured. “It’s starting to feel real.”

“It is real.”

She reached for the screen, like touching glass could bridge miles. “I can’t wait to kiss you again.”

You let out a breath. “Don’t make me cry this late.”

“I just miss you,” Paige said, voice cracking.

“I know, baby. I miss you too.”

Seven days before you arrive, a package showed up at her door with your name scribbled across the top.

Inside was a box of school supplies—pens, Post-its, paper clips—and a hand-written note.

“Figured I should bring some of me to you before I physically can. Can’t wait to leave these all over your kitchen table. Love you always, Your favorite teacher.”

She cried for fifteen minutes after opening it

Four days before, she sat at a team dinner scrolling through your texts, tuning out everything else.

Her phone buzzed.

“T-minus 96 hours. Pack extra chapstick. You’re not escaping all the kisses I owe you.”

She nearly choked on her lemonade.

She didn’t sleep.

She lay on the couch in your sweatshirt, staring at the ceiling, heart galloping in her chest like she was waiting for Christmas morning.

The phone rang at 1:08 AM.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked.

“Nope.”

“Me neither.”

You were quiet together for a while. Then Paige whispered, “Where are you?”

You laughed. “Still in Connecticut. Bags packed. Suitcase by the door. I keep checking my flight time every ten minutes.”

“Me too,” she said. “I keep opening the guest closet to make sure I left you enough space.”

“You didn’t.”

“Guess we’ll be sharing hangers then.” A pause. “Next time I call you,” you said, “it won’t be through a screen.”

Paige closed her eyes. “I’m gonna hold you so tight.”

“I’m gonna let you.”

Two days before.

The sun in Dallas was blinding. Unreasonably bright for a city that had no idea her world was about to tilt.

Paige had just gotten home from practice, keys still in hand, backpack sliding off her shoulder when she grabbed her phone.

One new message from you.

“On the way to my last class now—remind me to tell you about the 8th grader who tried to give me a friendship bracelet today. He said it was for luck on my big move .”

She smiled. She sat on the arm of the couch and typed fast.

“That’s the cutest thing ever.”

Delivered.

No read receipt. That was fine. You were still in class.

An hour passed.

She sent another.

“Dinner’s on me when you land. I bought dumplings. Don’t fight me.”

No response.

She waited.

She called around 9 p.m.

Once. Twice.

Three rings, voicemail.

She left a message.

“Hey, you okay? I know you’ve probably got a million things going on—boxes, checklists, last-minute goodbyes—but… just call me when you get a second, okay? I just want to hear your voice.”

She kept her phone next to her pillow that night, volume up, screen brightness high.

Nothing.

One day before.

The silence clung to her.

She woke with a headache, heart already racing, the cold side of the bed feeling like an accusation.

Still nothing from you.

Paige rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling.

“This is fine,” she whispered to herself. “You’re just busy. You’re probably with your family. Maybe your phone died.”

She called again.

Straight to voicemail.

She texted.

“I’m starting to worry. Just… send me a thumbs up or anything. Please.”

Nothing.

She paced the apartment, uneaten toast still on her plate, coffee gone cold in her mug.

That night, she sat on the kitchen floor in front of the fridge, phone in her lap, eyes red.

“Where are you?” “Baby, please.” “Just tell me you're okay.” “I don’t care if you’re not getting on the plane. I just need to know you're okay.”

She didn’t sleep.

Just stared at the wall.

The day of.

She cleaned the apartment top to bottom.

She couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t cry again.

You were supposed to land at 4:27 p.m.

She stared at the time on her screen—4:00… 4:15… 4:27… 4:40.

No call. No knock at the door. No text.

She scrolled to the airport’s arrival board online. Typed your flight number. Watched it switch from Scheduled to Landed.

Still nothing.

She picked up her phone again. Shaking fingers. Dialed.

Voicemail.

She left one anyway, voice cracking.

“Please don’t do this to me. Please. Just… I need you. I need to know if you’re—if you’re safe. If you changed your mind, I’ll understand. I swear, I’ll understand. Just don’t let it end like this. Not in silence.”

She hung up.

Then slumped down against the front door and broke.

Her body folded over itself. Sobs racked through her like her heart had forgotten how to beat without yours to match it. She stayed there, curled up, whispering your name like a prayer.

She didn’t turn the lights on.

She sat in the dark with your hoodie balled up in her arms and her phone still in her hand.

Her last text read, “I’ll wait by the door.”

But she never heard the knock.

Paige sat on the apartment floor again, back pressed against the kitchen cabinets. The tile was cold beneath her legs. She hadn’t eaten more than toast in 36 hours.

The dumplings were still in the freezer. She hadn’t touched them. Couldn’t.

She refreshed her texts.

Still no read receipts. Still no dots. Still no “Delivered” beneath her messages.

She called again.

Straight to voicemail.

She whispered into the silence like maybe this time the void would answer her.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” she said. “I don’t know if you’re ghosting me or if you’re gone. Please—please—just give me something. Let me hate you. Let me worry. Just don’t let me do both.”

She hung up. Laid down. Didn’t move.

She went to practice. No one said anything until the third missed shot in a row.

“Yo,” Arike called out. “You good, Paige?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just wiped sweat from her brow and threw the ball at the nearest rack.

“Fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I said I’m fine,” Paige snapped, sharper than she meant to. Her voice echoed off the gym walls like a slap.

Her teammates exchanged looks.

“Alright,” Nai said as they walked out of the locker room. “Spill. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Try again.”

Paige exhaled, shoulders slumped. “She was supposed to be here. Three days ago.”

Nai paused. “Wait—your girl? She didn’t come?”

“No call. No text. No voicemail. Nothing.”

Nai’s face softened. “Shit, Paige…”

“I don’t even know if she’s alive.”

“Have you… talked to anyone? Like, her friends, her mom—?”

“She’s private about that. Her family… it’s complicated.”

Nai hesitated. “Did she ever give any signs that she wouldn’t come?”

“No.” Paige blinked hard. “She was excited. We planned everything down to the shelf space. She sent me a letter. She told me she was counting hours. And now it’s just—gone.”

Nai put a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll figure it out.”

Paige flinched. “What if there’s nothing to figure out?”

Nai didn’t answer that.

The team had an off day.

Paige didn’t leave bed.

She watched your old videos on her phone—the ones you sent her when you used to stay up late decorating your classroom or making grilled cheese while dancing around your kitchen.

She watched them on loop until her phone died.

And then she just laid there, eyes burning.

Maddy brought takeout over.

“You need to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I didn’t ask.”

They sat in silence on the couch. Paige pushed rice around her plate without lifting the fork once.

Maddy glanced at her. “Is there any chance she—like, she couldn’t call?”

Paige’s voice cracked. “I don’t know. I’ve thought of everything. Every possibility. Car accident. No service. Anxiety. Cold feet. But it’s been over a week.”

“Have you heard anything?”

Paige shook her head. “Her phone goes straight to voicemail. Her email bounced. Her socials are dark. It’s like she fell off the planet.”

“Bueckers…”

“I keep checking the door,” Paige whispered. “I know she’s not coming, but I can’t help it. I still wake up thinking I’ll hear her keys.”

Maddy’s voice went soft. “You really loved her, huh?”

Paige nodded, eyes shining. “Still do.”

The media started noticing.

Her stats dropped. Her answers got shorter. Smiles didn’t reach her eyes.

In a post-practice interview, someone asked, “Everything okay off the court?”

She blinked, stunned into stillness.

Then nodded once.

But when she got back to the locker room, she cried into her jersey until her shoulders shook and her breath hitched and she didn’t know how to stop.

She texted you again.

“It’s been almost two weeks. Please. I’m not mad. I just need to know if you’re okay. I won’t ask anything else. Just… say something. Anything.”

She stared at the screen for hours.

Nothing.

She scrolled through every old message. Every photo. Every “I love you more.” Every kiss emoji. Every half-finished voice memo you never sent but saved for later.

She played one on loop.

“God, I can’t wait to be there. To be home. With you.”

And then, when her hands couldn’t stop shaking, she recorded one of her own. She didn’t know if it would ever be heard. But she sent it anyway.

“Hey. It’s Paige. I guess this is… my last message. I don’t know if you’re out there, or if you changed your mind, or if something happened and you’re too scared to tell me. But I still love you. And I always will. No matter what.”

She hit send.

And this time, she didn’t wait for the three dots to appear.

There was a new voicemail on Paige’s phone.

Not from you.

Just a spam number, something about her car warranty.

She deleted it without listening.

Your name—your entire thread—was now buried in her messages. She hadn’t opened it in four days. Not because she didn’t care. Because she couldn’t.

Every time she saw it, her stomach clenched. Not from love. From loss.

You had disappeared 25 days ago.

She used to count the days with hope. Now it just felt like proof that people vanish. Even the ones who swore they’d never leave.

Her texts to you had slowed. At first they’d been frantic—ten a day, calls at every hour. Then five a day. Then one. Then every few days.

Now? Nothing in almost a week.

She didn’t even cry anymore.

She just… lived.

Empty. Quiet. Going through the motions.

Practice was quiet. No jokes. No trash talk. Just the dull thud of the ball against hardwood and the squeak of sneakers she barely registered anymore.

Her shooting percentage had dropped 8%.

The coaching staff hadn’t said anything yet, but she could feel it. The stares. The sighs. The weight of eyes tracking her when they thought she wasn’t looking.

After practice, she sat on the locker room bench for ten minutes too long, staring at the wall like it might say something. Like you used to.

She pulled out her phone.

No new messages. No calls.

She scrolled to your contact anyway. Just to see it. Just to remind herself that once, there was a world where your name lit up her screen like sunlight.

She closed the app.

Went home.

Didn’t even shower.

Her phone rang.

She was mid-laundry, a damp towel slung over one arm, the apartment humid from the dryer running too long.

She didn’t check it immediately. Assumed it was Nai or maybe Coach.

It rang again.

She glanced over.

Paused.

Your name.

Your contact photo—the one she took on a lazy spring day, you in her hoodie, your cheeks pink from sun and laughter.

She froze. The call kept ringing. Her thumb hovered. She didn’t move. She just watched it ring. Watched it buzz against the counter like it hadn’t been silent for a month.

Then she let it stop. Didn’t touch it. Didn’t breathe. The screen went dark. She stood still for a long time. It rang again. Same name. Same photo. Same ringtone she hadn’t changed since the day you set it for yourself.

But this time, something cracked in her chest—not a sob, not panic. Just anger. Cold, bitter, exhausted anger.

You didn’t get to vanish for four weeks and come back like nothing happened. You didn’t get to disappear and then dial her number like it was safe to do so. You didn’t get to decide when she hurt. She watched it ring again. Didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

She whispered into the silence, voice flat, “You don’t get to do this to me.”

Then the call ended. And the phone was quiet again. And she sat down on the kitchen floor like she had the first night you didn’t show up. But this time, she didn’t cry. This time, she just turned the phone over, face down.

Let the silence reclaim the room.

The lights at Target Center always made Paige feel electric.

It was different being back here—being home. But nothing about tonight felt comforting.

She was sharp in warmups. Crisp. Clean. Cold. Her jumper was falling like clockwork. Her footwork flawless. Her body obeyed in a way her heart hadn’t for weeks.

She was pissed.

And she was going to take it out on the court.

Fans were already filling in as she paced the baseline, headphones slung around her neck, eyes unfocused as she dribbled through sets.

And then—she saw her.

Your mom.

Sitting alone. Courtside. Seat 3A. The one you said was your favorite seat cause you could watch her without getting blocked by other people.

She was smaller than Paige remembered. Or maybe just older. Her coat was folded neatly in her lap, hands clutching it like it could keep her together.

Paige’s heart stuttered.

She looked away.

Kept warming up.

Refused to let herself feel anything.

Not now. Not after four weeks of unanswered calls. Not after those two rings she let pass without lifting a finger.

She buried the sight of her behind a wall of rage. Let her heartbeat sync with the squeak of shoes, the thud of the ball, the echo of her name being announced with fire in the intro video.

And when the game started?

She was unreal.

Floaters. Crossovers. Mid-range pull-ups that never touched the rim.

By halftime, she had 18 points and 5 assists.

By the end of the third quarter, 27 points, 3 steals, and the crowd was roaring every time she touched the ball.

She didn’t crack. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

Not until the final buzzer sounded.

Not until she saw your mom again.

Still there. Still alone.

Waiting.

She pulled her warmup jacket on and started walking toward the tunnel, jaw tight, jaw locked.

“Paige.” She didn’t stop. “Paige, please.”

No.

No.

She kept walking. One foot in front of the other.

“She didn’t break her promise to you.”

That made her pause.

Your mom’s voice cracked through the noise like a crack in glass.

“She didn’t leave you.”

Paige’s breath caught.

She turned—slow, deliberate.

Your mom was standing now, gripping the railing, eyes already shining with tears.

“She was coming to you,” she whispered. “She never stopped loving you.”

“What did you just say?” Paige’s voice was a whisper.

The older woman’s lips trembled. “Can we… Can we talk somewhere else?”

Paige didn’t respond.

Just reached for her, fingers numb, and pulled her through the tunnel, past a stunned PR intern, down the hallway.

Into the locker room.

Empty.

Silent.

She shut the door behind them. Locked it.

Turned around.

“Say it again,” she said. Not a request. A plea.

Your mother stared at her, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. Her voice was barely there.

“She was on her way to Dallas,” she said. “She left two days early. Wanted to surprise you.”

Paige didn’t move.

“She was so excited. She couldn’t stop smiling. Said she wanted to be there when you got home from practice, said she couldn’t wait another day. She didn’t even tell me. I found the note on the kitchen table.”

Paige’s knees buckled.

She caught herself on the edge of a bench. “No,” she whispered.

“She got in the car that morning. Early. She never made it to the airport.”

Her heart stopped.

“She was hit by a semi on I-95. Fog was thick. The driver didn’t see her. She died on impact.”

Paige didn’t breathe. Couldn’t.

Your mother’s eyes filled again. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t know—how to reach you. I didn’t have your number, not anymore. I tried social media, but…”

“You didn’t call the team?” Paige’s voice was raw.

“I tried, but they didn’t believe me.”

Paige’s hands were shaking.

Your mother took a slow step forward. “She had gifts in the car. Her famous dumplings. Your favorite lotion. And a sweatshirt she swore would make you cry. She had this whole plan. She wanted to sneak in and wait on your couch.”

Paige let out a broken laugh. “That sounds like her.”

“She loved you so much.”

“I know,” Paige whispered, the first tear falling. “I know.”

And then she couldn’t stop them.

They came all at once—weeks of confusion, silence, fury, grief—crashing over her like a wave she never saw coming.

She sobbed into her hands, whole body trembling.

“She said she was coming,” Paige cried. “I waited. I waited so long.”

Your mother stepped forward, slowly, and sat beside her. She didn’t speak. Just reached for Paige’s hand.

It was cold. Small. Familiar.

“She tried,” she said.

That was all.

And it was everything.

That night, Paige didn’t go out with the team. Didn’t talk to media. Didn’t even turn on the lights when she got back to her hotel room.

She laid in bed, clutching her phone.

Opened your last message—the one with the bracelet story.

She read it over and over until her eyes blurred.

Then she opened her voicemails. The one you never got to hear.

She hit play.

And for the first time, she let herself believe you heard it after all.

The rest of the Wings flew back to Dallas the next morning.

Paige didn’t.

She sent a text to her coach. “I need a few more days. I’ll explain when I can.” She didn’t get a reply, just three dots. “Take your time. We’ve got you.”

Your mother offered her the guest room without hesitation.

But Paige couldn’t sleep.

She sat in your driveway for almost half an hour before walking inside, her duffel bag untouched in the trunk. The porch creaked the same way it had in high school. The air smelled like cinnamon and old books. The light in the hallway still flickered if you walked too fast.

The house felt like it had been paused mid-laugh.

Your mother gave her a quiet smile. “You can go up if you want.”

Paige hesitated at the stairs.

“I haven’t changed a thing,” she added.

Paige nodded.

And climbed.

Each step was an echo.

Your bedroom door was half-closed.

She pushed it open slowly, like the room might wake up.

It looked exactly the same.

The posters. The scuffed desk. The stack of books under your windowsill. The UConn flag pinned above your bed from the day you got your acceptance letter.

It felt like walking into a snow globe—perfectly preserved, terrifyingly still.

Her legs moved without permission. She stood in the center of the room, eyes darting from corner to corner.

There was the dent in the wall where you’d knocked your chair back too far trying to recreate a TikTok dance.

There was the blanket she gave you senior year—navy blue, your name and hers stitched into the corner like some inside joke you never explained to anyone else.

There was your old lanyard, still hanging from the doorknob.

And then her eyes landed on it.

The photo frame on your nightstand.

It was them.

Her and you.

From sophomore year.

Both in hoodies, half-asleep on your porch swing. She was leaning into you, your arm around her, eyes closed. You were laughing—head tilted, light spilling from you like a secret the world didn’t deserve.

She staggered forward.

Knees hit the side of the bed.

She picked up the frame with trembling hands. Traced your face with her thumb. Pressed it to her chest like it was the only part of you left.

That’s when it broke.

All of it.

The strength. The waiting. The hope. The disbelief.

She collapsed onto your bed in sobs that felt like thunder.

Big, gasping, shoulder-racking sobs.

“Why,” she cried into your pillow, voice muffled, raw. “Why didn’t I pick you up myself? Why didn’t I call more? Send someone? Why wasn’t I there?”

The pillow soaked beneath her. Your scent still faint.

She curled into it like it could answer her.

“God, you were right there. You were coming to me—early. And I didn’t—I didn’t even get to see you.”

The photo dropped from her hand and landed face-up beside her.

Her tears made the glass shimmer.

She pressed her cheek to it.

“Come back,” she whispered. “Please, baby. I don’t know how to live without you.”

She stayed there for what felt like hours.

Maybe it was.

No one came to check. Your mother didn’t knock. She must’ve known—must’ve felt it.

Paige eventually sat up, wiped her eyes on your sweatshirt still folded at the foot of your bed.

Her voice was wrecked when she finally whispered, “I never stopped waiting for you.”

And maybe she never would.

The cemetery was quiet.

The kind of quiet that made you feel like time had paused just long enough for the earth to breathe.

It was a cool, overcast morning—no sun, no shadows. Just that still, aching gray that matched the way Paige’s heart had felt since the moment she heard the words "she was on her way to surprise you."

Your mother had told her where to go.

Plot 47. Near the far oak. The one that turns red the first in fall.

The walk from the parking lot was long.

Paige carried a bouquet in one hand—sunflowers and dahlias, wrapped in twine. You always said they looked like fireworks made out of joy. She never forgot that.

Her other hand stayed tucked in her jacket pocket, fingers curled tight like she might fall apart if she let them open.

When she reached your grave, she just stood.

Still.

Frozen.

Your name was etched in marble now. Sharp, clean lettering. Birth year. Dash. End year.

Too soon. So unfairly soon.

Beneath it, a line she recognized.

She loved loudly. She laughed often. She never said goodbye without meaning it.

Paige bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.

She knelt slowly. Placed the flowers at the base. Adjusted them twice, even though they were already perfect.

And then she sat.

Cross-legged on the grass.

Facing you.

“I thought I’d have more time,” she said quietly.

The breeze stirred the petals.

“I thought you’d walk into my apartment two days early and I’d laugh and tell you you were crazy for not telling me. I thought we’d fight about cabinet space. I thought I’d kiss you every night for the rest of my life.”

She swallowed hard.

“But instead… I’m sitting here. And this is the first time I’ve seen your name in stone.”

A pause.

“I was angry. Your mom called me after a month of silence and I was angry. I didn’t know you were on your way to me. I didn’t know you never made it.”

She looked down, hands clenched in her lap.

“I thought you left me.”

Her breath trembled.

“I didn’t know you were trying to come home.”

She looked up at the sky.

“I would’ve waited at the airport all day if I had known. I would’ve driven to Minnesota and brought you myself. I would’ve done anything, anything, to see you one more time.”

Her jaw tensed. Eyes shined with fresh tears.

“I still talk to you. Every night. I sleep in your hoodie. I make coffee and pour two mugs like an idiot.”

She wiped her face with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

“The team doesn’t ask anymore. I think they’re scared of breaking me. But I’ve already been broken.”

She took a breath.

“But I’m still here.”

The wind picked up. Rustled the oak leaves above.

“I went back to your bedroom,” Paige said. “It looked exactly the same. Like you were just at school and would be home by dinner.”

She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a small laminated photo—the same one that had sat on your nightstand. The one of the two of you from sophomore year. She laid it gently between the flowers and the stone.

“I wanted to leave this with you,” she said. “Because even if I have to move forward, I’m not leaving you. You’re still the best part of me.”

A gust of wind blew through the grass. Paige looked down.

Her voice dropped, barely audible.

“I love you,” she whispered. “And I always will.”

She sat there for a long time.

Telling you about her next game. About the dumplings she finally cooked. About the song that made her think of you last week and how she cried in the car on the way to practice.

She stayed until the sun started peeking out again. Until the clouds began to thin and the shadows returned.

Then she stood. Pressed two fingers to her lips. Then to your name.

And walked away.

The flowers swayed in the breeze behind her.

The picture stayed.

You stayed.

The cheers were deafening.

It was the second round of the playoffs. Dallas had clawed their way in, and now they were clawing their way forward. The whole arena stood as Paige walked toward center court, Rookie of the Year graphic blazing behind her.

Bright lights. Brighter smile.

But behind that smile, a tremor.

She hadn’t slept much the night before. Not because of nerves. But because the one person she wanted to share this with wasn’t there.

Would never be there again.

She stepped forward, hands steady despite the storm inside her. Her name echoed from the speakers. “2025 WNBA Rookie of the Year… Paige Bueckers!”

Applause.

Spotlights.

Cameras flashing.

A league rep handed her the trophy—sleek, metallic, engraved. Her fingers curled around it automatically. Like she was on autopilot.

She turned to the mic.

The crowd quieted.

Her voice started strong.

“Um… wow. This means the world. First of all, thank you to the league, my teammates, my coaches. The Dallas Wings believed in me the second they drafted me, and I hope I’ve made them proud.”

More cheers.

She smiled faintly.

“I want to thank my family. My friends. The fans. And my hometown—Hopkins, I love you.”

More applause.

Then a pause.

She glanced down at the trophy in her hand. Her fingers tightened.

Her voice softened.

“But… there’s someone else I need to thank.”

The arena stilled.

Paige’s throat bobbed.

“She… she should’ve been here. And she almost was.”

The crowd hushed.

Paige blinked up at the rafters like she was asking for strength from a sky that still felt too far away.

“She was the first person who told me I was going to make it here. She saw this moment before I did. She believed in me when I was tired. She reminded me why I loved this game when I couldn’t feel it.”

She looked directly into the camera.

“Thank you for loving me. For believing in me. For being the kindest, brightest part of my life. This award… I share it with you. I dedicate it to you.”

A single tear slid down her cheek.

“You didn’t make it to the game. But you made me. Every piece of me. So I carry you every time I step on this court.”

The crowd began clapping—slow, quiet. Then stronger. Louder.

Rising like a wave.

Paige stepped back from the mic.

She raised the trophy once. Small, solemn.

And whispered, not into the microphone, but just to the air.

“I hope you’re proud of me.”

The cemetery was quiet again.

Autumn had arrived. The oak tree beside your grave had started to turn—flaming reds and soft oranges bleeding down through the branches like a slow goodbye.

Paige walked the familiar path in silence.

No cameras. No team. No PR handlers. No trophy case.

Just her.

And the small velvet-lined box tucked under her arm.

She wore your hoodie. It still smelled faintly like your shampoo. It was a little too worn now, the cuffs fraying. But it was hers. And it had been yours. And that made it holy.

When she reached your grave, she knelt.

The headstone hadn’t changed. Still your name. Still that cruel little dash between two years that weren’t enough. Still that line.

She never said goodbye without meaning it.

Paige set the box down beside the sunflowers and dahlias she’d brought. The same flowers she always did.

She didn’t open the box right away.

Just stared at your name. Let the wind brush over her face. Let the silence wrap around her like a question with no answer.

“I said I’d bring it to you,” she whispered eventually.

Her fingers found the edges of the velvet. She lifted the lid.

Inside was her Rookie of the Year trophy—well, a replica. The league had sent a second version when they needed to display the original. She didn’t correct them. She was glad for it.

Because this one was for you.

She picked it up gently. Placed it against the stone.

“This was yours before it was mine,” she said. “You trained me in the off-seasons. You studied game tape with me. You kept me grounded when I got caught in my own head.”

She exhaled. It sounded like surrender.

“I know I said the words in my speech. But I needed to say them here.”

A leaf drifted down between them.

She smiled faintly.

“I miss you every day. I talk to you before every game. I look for your face in every crowd. I still text you sometimes. Even though I know the only place I can send anything now… is here.”

She touched the trophy. Then the top edge of your headstone.

“I hope wherever you are, you’re still loud. Still laughing. Still correcting my form from the sidelines and making fun of how dramatic I get during interviews.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away.

“I won, baby,” she whispered. “And it should’ve been us holding this together.”

Her voice dropped to something barely audible.

“But I’m still holding it for both of us.”

She leaned forward. Pressed a kiss to the marble.

And then sat beside your grave. Not in mourning.

But in memory.

She stayed until the sky turned pink behind the trees.

Then stood.

One last look at the trophy. At the stone. At the name she loved more than her own.

“I’ll be back,” she said. “That’s a promise.”

And when she walked away, the wind rustled the leaves—gentle, soft, as if the trees themselves whispered back.

I know.

[uncuredturkeybacon]

luv you too bae 😘

𝚜𝚒𝚡 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚜 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which love never ends

The sun filtered in through the half-closed blinds of Paige’s dorm room, casting soft strips of light across the hardwood floor. The room was half-packed—open boxes lined the bed, shoes spilling over the edge, books stacked in leaning towers by the door. A half-empty closet loomed in the corner like a reminder of all the time that had passed and how little of it was left.

You stood near her desk, folding up a Wings hoodie that had been sent in the mail last week, her name stitched in bold on the sleeve.

“She really said number one pick,” you teased gently, holding it up like a trophy.

Paige, sitting cross-legged on her bed, looked up at you and grinned. “She really did. Can you believe that?”

“No,” you said, smile twitching at the corner of your mouth. “But I’m proud of her anyway.”

She tilted her head, her smile dimming into something quieter, more thoughtful. “I’m scared.”

You didn’t answer right away. You folded the hoodie neatly and placed it in the open suitcase at the edge of her bed, smoothing it down like it was fragile.

“I know,” you said softly.

“It’s not the game,” she clarified, glancing at you like she needed you to understand. “I’m not scared about basketball. I’m scared of going without you.”

You walked over and sat beside her, one foot tucked under your knee, your shoulder brushing hers.

“I’ll be there,” you said, firm, not flinching.

Paige leaned her head against your shoulder. “Six months feels like a long time.”

“It’s really not.”

“It feels like it.”

You rested your hand on her thigh, fingers curling just slightly into the fabric of her sweats. She was wearing your high school tee—old and oversized, faded from too many washes. You had given it to her years ago when she’d stolen it after a sleepover and never gave it back. You never asked her to.

“You have a whole season to get through,” you said gently. “I have students to teach and finals to grade and middle schoolers to keep from launching glue sticks at each other. It’ll go fast.”

Paige let out a small breath of laughter. “You really want to be a teacher, huh?”

“I already am. I’m a TA now, remember?” you bumped your shoulder against hers. “And I’ve already got my offer letter. Same school district my mom used to work in. Orientation’s the week after graduation.”

She turned toward you, eyes soft and serious. “That’s incredible.”

“You’re incredible,” you said before you could stop yourself.

Paige blinked, looking down like she needed to hide how fast she blushed. She always got like that when you said things too directly. Too honestly.

She didn’t say anything for a moment.

Then, her voice barely above a whisper, “Are you really gonna come to Dallas?”

You turned toward her fully, one leg sliding off the bed to ground yourself. “Yes.”

“You promise?”

You reached for her hand, threading your fingers together. “I promise.”

Her bottom lip quivered just slightly, and she bit down on it like she could swallow the emotion before it broke the surface.

“You’re not just saying that to make it easier.”

“No, Paige. I mean it.” You squeezed her hand. “Six months from now, I’ll be there. I’ll be in your apartment, probably fighting you for closet space and making you pasta after away games.”

She smiled, even as her eyes welled with tears. “You can’t cook.”

“I’m learning. I made that chicken stir fry last week.”

“That was microwaved chicken stir fry.”

“Still counts.”

She laughed through her tears, leaning in to press her forehead to yours. “God, I love you.”

You closed your eyes. “I love you too.”

There were things you didn’t say—like how terrified you were of her leaving, how the thought of waking up alone in your own dorm made your chest ache. How hard it would be to fall asleep without her cold feet pressing against your calves or her late-night whispered rants about practice drills.

But you also didn’t say how proud you were watching her step into this next chapter. You didn’t need to.

Instead, you kissed her—slow, lingering, full of everything you couldn’t fit into words. When you pulled away, her eyes stayed closed like she was memorizing the shape of your mouth.

“You’ll call?” she whispered.

“Every night,” you said. “Even if it’s just to hear you breathe.”

“That’s weird,” she teased.

“That’s love.”

She leaned into your chest, burying her face in your neck, and you held her. You didn’t move for a long time.

When she left for the airport the next morning, her fingers gripped yours until the last possible moment. You kissed her like you were writing a promise into her mouth. Six months, you told her again. You’ll be there in six months.

And as she stepped through the terminal gate, looking back at you with tears in her eyes and her Wings hoodie pulled tight around her, you smiled through your own heartbreak.

Because you meant it.

And because some promises don’t need reminders.

They just need time.

Dallas felt bigger than it looked on a map.

Everything about it—traffic, heat, even the sky—seemed stretched, like someone had pulled the edges of a familiar world just far enough to make it unrecognizable.

Paige sat alone on the living room floor of her new apartment, a half-unpacked box of plates beside her and a phone balanced on her knee. Her wallpaper was still a photo of you— blurry, mid-laugh, sitting cross-legged in the grass at a park. It was from a late spring picnic, right before you both had to pretend you weren’t about to say goodbye.

She stared at the screen like it might blink and bring you back.

You answered after the third ring, your voice a little breathless. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Paige whispered. It came out softer than she meant. Her chest ached.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” you asked.

“No. Just… sitting.”

“On the floor?”

“Yeah. I don’t know where my couch screws went. I might be living a cushion life for a while.”

You laughed—real, warm, familiar. Paige closed her eyes and let it coat the inside of her ribs.

“That’s kind of poetic,” you said. “Starting your WNBA career on the floor of an empty apartment.”

“Feels more pathetic than poetic.”

“No. I like it. It’s humble.”

Paige exhaled, and her voice cracked just slightly. “I miss you.”

The line was quiet for a second. Then you spoke, your voice gentler. “I miss you too.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. “I keep forgetting you’re not ten minutes away. Like today, I had a good practice, and my first thought was ‘I’m gonna stop by your place and tell you everything.’ And then I remembered.”

“I know,” you said. “I do that too.”

“I drove past a coffee shop the other day and almost walked in just to see if you’d be there. Even though you’ve never even been to Texas.”

You smiled, she could hear it. “You’re thinking of the one near Gampel, huh?”

“Yeah.” She swallowed. “The one where you studied and I’d show up pretending I needed help with nutrition class.”

“You did need help.”

“Whatever. It worked.”

She leaned her head back against the wall and looked around at the blank space surrounding her. The moving truck had come and gone. The furniture was in, but the soul of the apartment hadn’t arrived yet.

It was still missing you.

“How’s school?” she asked.

“Chaotic,” you replied. “One of the kids asked me today if people in the ‘old times’ had internet. I said, ‘Define old.’ He said, ‘Like 2005.’”

Paige laughed, shaking her head. “Rude.”

“I’m ancient now,” you said. “Twenty-two and deteriorating.”

“You better still have the strength to carry all your stuff up three flights when you get here.”

“Oh, I do. I’m saving it all up for the move.”

Her smile faltered. “You’re still coming, right?”

You went quiet again. Not hesitant—just letting it settle, weighty and certain.

“Of course I am.”

Paige closed her eyes. “Promise?”

“I already did.”

“I just…” Her voice trailed. “It’s hard. Not hearing your keys in the door. Not getting to see your face at the end of the day. I love my team, I really do—but they’re not you.”

“I’m not replacing anyone,” you said. “Just adding to it.”

She let that sit with her. “I want you here so bad it hurts sometimes.”

“I know,” you whispered. “Me too.”

Her voice shook. “I don’t want us to change.”

“We won’t.”

“But long distance changes people.”

“Maybe,” you admitted. “But not us. It might make things harder. But not worse.”

She nodded, even though you couldn’t see it. “I just feel like I’m floating through all this without you. The practices, the press, the apartment—it all feels… half real.”

“Paige,” you said, gentle, firm. “I am coming. I’m not drifting away from you. I’m just walking the longer path to the same place.”

She let the silence wrap around her.

“Say something else,” she said softly. “Just talk to me.”

You paused. “Okay… I hung up pictures in my room. There’s one of us from last spring. You’ve got your mouth full of apple slices and you’re giving me the middle finger because I said you looked like a squirrel.”

She laughed. “I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

Paige smiled, small but genuine. She pictured it. You, in your tiny off-campus apartment. Talking about her like she was still part of your day. She was. You were hers, too.

“I love you,” Paige said.

“I love you more,” you answered.

The days ticked by slower than she liked.

Some nights, she fell asleep with the phone still in her hand, your voice still echoing in her ears from a half-finished conversation. Other nights, she'd stay up scrolling through old pictures, rereading texts, listening to voicemails.

Her teammates teased her about being a hopeless romantic. About how she smiled every time your name came up. About how she always checked her phone like she was waiting for someone to come home.

And she was.

Because in six months—five, now—you would.

And when that day came, Paige knew, no amount of missed calls or empty beds would matter. Because you’d be there. You’d walk through the door with a duffel bag and a tired smile, and she'd finally feel whole again.

But until then… she’d wait.

With her phone in her hand. And your promise in her heart.

The calendar on Paige’s fridge had six weeks circled in red.

It was stupid, maybe, using a physical calendar like some suburban mom—but it grounded her. It gave shape to time that otherwise felt endless. Each “X” she scribbled through a square made the space between now and your arrival just a little smaller.

But it didn’t make the missing hurt any less.

Paige sat curled on the apartment couch, legs tucked under her, bowl of cereal in one hand, phone pressed to her cheek with the other. Her hair was still damp from practice. Her whole body ached—but nothing ached more than the space beside her on the couch.

“I got a voicemail from one of my students today,” your voice said through the speaker. “He said, ‘Miss Y/L/N, I hope you feel better because math was boring without you.’ And then he just hung up. No goodbye. Just vibes.”

Paige chuckled, staring out the window at the pink glow bleeding across the Dallas sky. “You’re their favorite.”

“They’re my favorites too. Even when they call me 'mom' by accident and pretend like it didn’t happen.”

“You do have teacher-mom energy.”

“Oh, shut up,” you said with a laugh. “You miss my teacher-mom energy.”

“Painfully.”

A beat of silence.

“I’m looking at your sweatshirt right now,” you said after a moment. “You left it in my car before you moved. I wore it to bed last night.”

That pulled a breath from Paige she didn’t know she was holding. “Did it still smell like me?”

“It did. Faintly. Like that vanilla lotion you always forget to pack on road trips.”

She smiled. “I haven’t used it since I left.”

“Save it for me?”

“Always.”

She shifted, curling tighter into herself. “Today was hard.”

“Tell me.”

“Team media stuff,” Paige mumbled. “Photos, press questions, PR meetings. They asked about goals. Stats. Leadership. Playmaking. All I could think was, none of that matters until you’re here.”

You were quiet for a moment. “I don’t want to be the reason you’re not present here, Paige.”

“You’re not. You’re the reason I am.” She pressed the heel of her hand into her eye, blinking fast. “I show up every day because I know you’ll be here soon. It’s the only thing keeping me steady.”

You exhaled softly on the other end of the line.

“I’m coming. You know that.”

“I know.”

“But you need to live this part too, babe. Not just wait for me to catch up.”

Paige looked down at the rug. Her socked toe circled the same loop in the fabric she always traced when she was anxious.

“I’m trying,” she whispered.

“I know you are,” you said, gentle and true.

She listened to your breathing—steady, familiar, comforting like a lullaby only she ever got to hear.

“I got your letter,” you said after a pause.

Her breath caught. “You did?”

“It was in my mailbox when I got home today. I read it twice. I cried.”

“Yeah?” Her throat tightened. “I wasn’t sure if I should send it.”

“I’m glad you did.” You paused. “The part where you said you wake up sometimes expecting me to be next to you… that broke me.”

“It breaks me too,” she admitted.

You went quiet, and for a second she thought maybe the call had dropped. But then you spoke, voice lower than before.

“I still sleep on my side of the bed.”

Paige’s eyes burned. “Me too.”

More silence. Not awkward—just full. Weighted. Safe.

“I’ve been drafting lesson plans on weekends,” you said eventually. “Every time I write one, I imagine grading papers at your kitchen table. Coffee beside me. You half-asleep, stealing bites of my breakfast.”

“I want that so bad,” Paige whispered. “Just… life with you.”

“You’ll have it.”

“I’m scared something’s gonna change before then.”

You were quiet. “Do you feel me changing?”

“No,” she answered immediately. “No. I feel you more than ever.”

“Then trust that.”

She let her head fall back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut. “I trust you.”

“Good,” you whispered. “Because I’m not going anywhere. Even if it feels like I’m not close yet—I am. I’m getting closer every single day.”

Paige exhaled shakily. “I need you.”

“You have me.”

It was the kind of sentence Paige wanted to wrap herself in. Warm. Safe. Whole.

“I love you,” she said.

“I love you more,” you replied. “Thirty-nine days.”

She smiled.

Thirty-nine days.

She could wait a little longer.

Paige had never looked at a calendar so obsessively in her life.

Thirteen days.

She’d circled the date in three different colors now. Red, then black, then silver Sharpie because it felt permanent. Final. Like a promise.

Thirteen days until you arrived in Dallas. Thirteen days until she wouldn’t have to fall asleep hugging a pillow that didn’t breathe. Until she wouldn’t have to whisper “I love you” to a lock screen photo anymore.

Her teammates noticed.

“You good, Bueckers?” Arike asked at practice after she botched a layup drill for the third time.

“Yeah. Just… distracted.”

DiJonai raised a brow. “Your girl coming soon?”

Paige glanced down at the court, tried to hide her smile. “Thirteen days.”

Arike let out a low whistle. “We’re about to meet the mysterious teacher girlfriend.”

“She’s real?” Maddy Siegrist joked from the sideline. “I thought y’all made her up for the plot.”

“Shut up,” Paige muttered, but she was grinning.

That night, her phone buzzed with a picture.

You. In the mirror. Hair still damp from a shower, her oversized Wings hoodie falling off one shoulder. The caption underneath said, “Borrowed this. Sorry, not sorry.”

Paige melted into her mattress.

“That’s the only crime I fully endorse.”

Then she FaceTimed you.

You answered almost immediately, face bright despite the bags under your eyes. “Hey, superstar.”

“Hey, thief.”

You smiled. “Caught me.”

“You look good in that.”

“I better. You left it behind for a reason.”

“I did,” Paige said softly. “So you’d have something to hold until I could do it myself again.”

Your face shifted, tenderness blooming at the edges of your eyes. “Two weeks.”

“Twelve days.”

You sighed, smiling into the phone like she’d pressed a kiss to your cheek through the screen. “I packed up my classroom today. Left a note on the desk for the next TA.”

Paige nodded. “It’s real now, huh?”

“It’s always been real,” you said. “But now it’s here. It’s close.”

Paige ran a hand through her hair, breath shaky. “I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“That something will go wrong. That the plane will get canceled. Or your offer will fall through. Or you’ll—”

“I’m coming,” you interrupted, firm, grounding her. “There’s no ‘what if.’ I’m coming. Eleven days and twenty hours. I counted.”

Paige stared at you for a long second.

“Come sleep on the call,” she said quietly.

You blinked. “You want me to fall asleep with you on the phone?”

“I want to hear you breathe,” she whispered. “I want to pretend the distance isn’t real for one night.”

You didn’t hesitate. “Okay.”

She propped her phone up on the pillow beside her. You did the same. It wasn’t perfect—fuzzy audio, a time delay—but it was yours. You talked about nothing for a while. What you made for dinner (pasta), the paper you were editing (some kid plagiarized a poem about dogs), your grocery list for when you moved in (cereal, way too much oat milk, frozen dumplings).

And then it got quiet.

Your voice came soft in the dark, “Ten days tomorrow.”

“I know,” Paige murmured. “It’s starting to feel real.”

“It is real.”

She reached for the screen, like touching glass could bridge miles. “I can’t wait to kiss you again.”

You let out a breath. “Don’t make me cry this late.”

“I just miss you,” Paige said, voice cracking.

“I know, baby. I miss you too.”

Seven days before you arrive, a package showed up at her door with your name scribbled across the top.

Inside was a box of school supplies—pens, Post-its, paper clips—and a hand-written note.

“Figured I should bring some of me to you before I physically can. Can’t wait to leave these all over your kitchen table. Love you always, Your favorite teacher.”

She cried for fifteen minutes after opening it

Four days before, she sat at a team dinner scrolling through your texts, tuning out everything else.

Her phone buzzed.

“T-minus 96 hours. Pack extra chapstick. You’re not escaping all the kisses I owe you.”

She nearly choked on her lemonade.

She didn’t sleep.

She lay on the couch in your sweatshirt, staring at the ceiling, heart galloping in her chest like she was waiting for Christmas morning.

The phone rang at 1:08 AM.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked.

“Nope.”

“Me neither.”

You were quiet together for a while. Then Paige whispered, “Where are you?”

You laughed. “Still in Connecticut. Bags packed. Suitcase by the door. I keep checking my flight time every ten minutes.”

“Me too,” she said. “I keep opening the guest closet to make sure I left you enough space.”

“You didn’t.”

“Guess we’ll be sharing hangers then.” A pause. “Next time I call you,” you said, “it won’t be through a screen.”

Paige closed her eyes. “I’m gonna hold you so tight.”

“I’m gonna let you.”

Two days before.

The sun in Dallas was blinding. Unreasonably bright for a city that had no idea her world was about to tilt.

Paige had just gotten home from practice, keys still in hand, backpack sliding off her shoulder when she grabbed her phone.

One new message from you.

“On the way to my last class now—remind me to tell you about the 8th grader who tried to give me a friendship bracelet today. He said it was for luck on my big move .”

She smiled. She sat on the arm of the couch and typed fast.

“That’s the cutest thing ever.”

Delivered.

No read receipt. That was fine. You were still in class.

An hour passed.

She sent another.

“Dinner’s on me when you land. I bought dumplings. Don’t fight me.”

No response.

She waited.

She called around 9 p.m.

Once. Twice.

Three rings, voicemail.

She left a message.

“Hey, you okay? I know you’ve probably got a million things going on—boxes, checklists, last-minute goodbyes—but… just call me when you get a second, okay? I just want to hear your voice.”

She kept her phone next to her pillow that night, volume up, screen brightness high.

Nothing.

One day before.

The silence clung to her.

She woke with a headache, heart already racing, the cold side of the bed feeling like an accusation.

Still nothing from you.

Paige rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling.

“This is fine,” she whispered to herself. “You’re just busy. You’re probably with your family. Maybe your phone died.”

She called again.

Straight to voicemail.

She texted.

“I’m starting to worry. Just… send me a thumbs up or anything. Please.”

Nothing.

She paced the apartment, uneaten toast still on her plate, coffee gone cold in her mug.

That night, she sat on the kitchen floor in front of the fridge, phone in her lap, eyes red.

“Where are you?” “Baby, please.” “Just tell me you're okay.” “I don’t care if you’re not getting on the plane. I just need to know you're okay.”

She didn’t sleep.

Just stared at the wall.

The day of.

She cleaned the apartment top to bottom.

She couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t cry again.

You were supposed to land at 4:27 p.m.

She stared at the time on her screen—4:00… 4:15… 4:27… 4:40.

No call. No knock at the door. No text.

She scrolled to the airport’s arrival board online. Typed your flight number. Watched it switch from Scheduled to Landed.

Still nothing.

She picked up her phone again. Shaking fingers. Dialed.

Voicemail.

She left one anyway, voice cracking.

“Please don’t do this to me. Please. Just… I need you. I need to know if you’re—if you’re safe. If you changed your mind, I’ll understand. I swear, I’ll understand. Just don’t let it end like this. Not in silence.”

She hung up.

Then slumped down against the front door and broke.

Her body folded over itself. Sobs racked through her like her heart had forgotten how to beat without yours to match it. She stayed there, curled up, whispering your name like a prayer.

She didn’t turn the lights on.

She sat in the dark with your hoodie balled up in her arms and her phone still in her hand.

Her last text read, “I’ll wait by the door.”

But she never heard the knock.

Paige sat on the apartment floor again, back pressed against the kitchen cabinets. The tile was cold beneath her legs. She hadn’t eaten more than toast in 36 hours.

The dumplings were still in the freezer. She hadn’t touched them. Couldn’t.

She refreshed her texts.

Still no read receipts. Still no dots. Still no “Delivered” beneath her messages.

She called again.

Straight to voicemail.

She whispered into the silence like maybe this time the void would answer her.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” she said. “I don’t know if you’re ghosting me or if you’re gone. Please—please—just give me something. Let me hate you. Let me worry. Just don’t let me do both.”

She hung up. Laid down. Didn’t move.

She went to practice. No one said anything until the third missed shot in a row.

“Yo,” Arike called out. “You good, Paige?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just wiped sweat from her brow and threw the ball at the nearest rack.

“Fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I said I’m fine,” Paige snapped, sharper than she meant to. Her voice echoed off the gym walls like a slap.

Her teammates exchanged looks.

“Alright,” Nai said as they walked out of the locker room. “Spill. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Try again.”

Paige exhaled, shoulders slumped. “She was supposed to be here. Three days ago.”

Nai paused. “Wait—your girl? She didn’t come?”

“No call. No text. No voicemail. Nothing.”

Nai’s face softened. “Shit, Paige…”

“I don’t even know if she’s alive.”

“Have you… talked to anyone? Like, her friends, her mom—?”

“She’s private about that. Her family… it’s complicated.”

Nai hesitated. “Did she ever give any signs that she wouldn’t come?”

“No.” Paige blinked hard. “She was excited. We planned everything down to the shelf space. She sent me a letter. She told me she was counting hours. And now it’s just—gone.”

Nai put a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll figure it out.”

Paige flinched. “What if there’s nothing to figure out?”

Nai didn’t answer that.

The team had an off day.

Paige didn’t leave bed.

She watched your old videos on her phone—the ones you sent her when you used to stay up late decorating your classroom or making grilled cheese while dancing around your kitchen.

She watched them on loop until her phone died.

And then she just laid there, eyes burning.

Maddy brought takeout over.

“You need to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I didn’t ask.”

They sat in silence on the couch. Paige pushed rice around her plate without lifting the fork once.

Maddy glanced at her. “Is there any chance she—like, she couldn’t call?”

Paige’s voice cracked. “I don’t know. I’ve thought of everything. Every possibility. Car accident. No service. Anxiety. Cold feet. But it’s been over a week.”

“Have you heard anything?”

Paige shook her head. “Her phone goes straight to voicemail. Her email bounced. Her socials are dark. It’s like she fell off the planet.”

“Bueckers…”

“I keep checking the door,” Paige whispered. “I know she’s not coming, but I can’t help it. I still wake up thinking I’ll hear her keys.”

Maddy’s voice went soft. “You really loved her, huh?”

Paige nodded, eyes shining. “Still do.”

The media started noticing.

Her stats dropped. Her answers got shorter. Smiles didn’t reach her eyes.

In a post-practice interview, someone asked, “Everything okay off the court?”

She blinked, stunned into stillness.

Then nodded once.

But when she got back to the locker room, she cried into her jersey until her shoulders shook and her breath hitched and she didn’t know how to stop.

She texted you again.

“It’s been almost two weeks. Please. I’m not mad. I just need to know if you’re okay. I won’t ask anything else. Just… say something. Anything.”

She stared at the screen for hours.

Nothing.

She scrolled through every old message. Every photo. Every “I love you more.” Every kiss emoji. Every half-finished voice memo you never sent but saved for later.

She played one on loop.

“God, I can’t wait to be there. To be home. With you.”

And then, when her hands couldn’t stop shaking, she recorded one of her own. She didn’t know if it would ever be heard. But she sent it anyway.

“Hey. It’s Paige. I guess this is… my last message. I don’t know if you’re out there, or if you changed your mind, or if something happened and you’re too scared to tell me. But I still love you. And I always will. No matter what.”

She hit send.

And this time, she didn’t wait for the three dots to appear.

There was a new voicemail on Paige’s phone.

Not from you.

Just a spam number, something about her car warranty.

She deleted it without listening.

Your name—your entire thread—was now buried in her messages. She hadn’t opened it in four days. Not because she didn’t care. Because she couldn’t.

Every time she saw it, her stomach clenched. Not from love. From loss.

You had disappeared 25 days ago.

She used to count the days with hope. Now it just felt like proof that people vanish. Even the ones who swore they’d never leave.

Her texts to you had slowed. At first they’d been frantic—ten a day, calls at every hour. Then five a day. Then one. Then every few days.

Now? Nothing in almost a week.

She didn’t even cry anymore.

She just… lived.

Empty. Quiet. Going through the motions.

Practice was quiet. No jokes. No trash talk. Just the dull thud of the ball against hardwood and the squeak of sneakers she barely registered anymore.

Her shooting percentage had dropped 8%.

The coaching staff hadn’t said anything yet, but she could feel it. The stares. The sighs. The weight of eyes tracking her when they thought she wasn’t looking.

After practice, she sat on the locker room bench for ten minutes too long, staring at the wall like it might say something. Like you used to.

She pulled out her phone.

No new messages. No calls.

She scrolled to your contact anyway. Just to see it. Just to remind herself that once, there was a world where your name lit up her screen like sunlight.

She closed the app.

Went home.

Didn’t even shower.

Her phone rang.

She was mid-laundry, a damp towel slung over one arm, the apartment humid from the dryer running too long.

She didn’t check it immediately. Assumed it was Nai or maybe Coach.

It rang again.

She glanced over.

Paused.

Your name.

Your contact photo—the one she took on a lazy spring day, you in her hoodie, your cheeks pink from sun and laughter.

She froze. The call kept ringing. Her thumb hovered. She didn’t move. She just watched it ring. Watched it buzz against the counter like it hadn’t been silent for a month.

Then she let it stop. Didn’t touch it. Didn’t breathe. The screen went dark. She stood still for a long time. It rang again. Same name. Same photo. Same ringtone she hadn’t changed since the day you set it for yourself.

But this time, something cracked in her chest—not a sob, not panic. Just anger. Cold, bitter, exhausted anger.

You didn’t get to vanish for four weeks and come back like nothing happened. You didn’t get to disappear and then dial her number like it was safe to do so. You didn’t get to decide when she hurt. She watched it ring again. Didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

She whispered into the silence, voice flat, “You don’t get to do this to me.”

Then the call ended. And the phone was quiet again. And she sat down on the kitchen floor like she had the first night you didn’t show up. But this time, she didn’t cry. This time, she just turned the phone over, face down.

Let the silence reclaim the room.

The lights at Target Center always made Paige feel electric.

It was different being back here—being home. But nothing about tonight felt comforting.

She was sharp in warmups. Crisp. Clean. Cold. Her jumper was falling like clockwork. Her footwork flawless. Her body obeyed in a way her heart hadn’t for weeks.

She was pissed.

And she was going to take it out on the court.

Fans were already filling in as she paced the baseline, headphones slung around her neck, eyes unfocused as she dribbled through sets.

And then—she saw her.

Your mom.

Sitting alone. Courtside. Seat 3A. The one you said was your favorite seat cause you could watch her without getting blocked by other people.

She was smaller than Paige remembered. Or maybe just older. Her coat was folded neatly in her lap, hands clutching it like it could keep her together.

Paige’s heart stuttered.

She looked away.

Kept warming up.

Refused to let herself feel anything.

Not now. Not after four weeks of unanswered calls. Not after those two rings she let pass without lifting a finger.

She buried the sight of her behind a wall of rage. Let her heartbeat sync with the squeak of shoes, the thud of the ball, the echo of her name being announced with fire in the intro video.

And when the game started?

She was unreal.

Floaters. Crossovers. Mid-range pull-ups that never touched the rim.

By halftime, she had 18 points and 5 assists.

By the end of the third quarter, 27 points, 3 steals, and the crowd was roaring every time she touched the ball.

She didn’t crack. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

Not until the final buzzer sounded.

Not until she saw your mom again.

Still there. Still alone.

Waiting.

She pulled her warmup jacket on and started walking toward the tunnel, jaw tight, jaw locked.

“Paige.” She didn’t stop. “Paige, please.”

No.

No.

She kept walking. One foot in front of the other.

“She didn’t break her promise to you.”

That made her pause.

Your mom’s voice cracked through the noise like a crack in glass.

“She didn’t leave you.”

Paige’s breath caught.

She turned—slow, deliberate.

Your mom was standing now, gripping the railing, eyes already shining with tears.

“She was coming to you,” she whispered. “She never stopped loving you.”

“What did you just say?” Paige’s voice was a whisper.

The older woman’s lips trembled. “Can we… Can we talk somewhere else?”

Paige didn’t respond.

Just reached for her, fingers numb, and pulled her through the tunnel, past a stunned PR intern, down the hallway.

Into the locker room.

Empty.

Silent.

She shut the door behind them. Locked it.

Turned around.

“Say it again,” she said. Not a request. A plea.

Your mother stared at her, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. Her voice was barely there.

“She was on her way to Dallas,” she said. “She left two days early. Wanted to surprise you.”

Paige didn’t move.

“She was so excited. She couldn’t stop smiling. Said she wanted to be there when you got home from practice, said she couldn’t wait another day. She didn’t even tell me. I found the note on the kitchen table.”

Paige’s knees buckled.

She caught herself on the edge of a bench. “No,” she whispered.

“She got in the car that morning. Early. She never made it to the airport.”

Her heart stopped.

“She was hit by a semi on I-95. Fog was thick. The driver didn’t see her. She died on impact.”

Paige didn’t breathe. Couldn’t.

Your mother’s eyes filled again. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t know—how to reach you. I didn’t have your number, not anymore. I tried social media, but…”

“You didn’t call the team?” Paige’s voice was raw.

“I tried, but they didn’t believe me.”

Paige’s hands were shaking.

Your mother took a slow step forward. “She had gifts in the car. Her famous dumplings. Your favorite lotion. And a sweatshirt she swore would make you cry. She had this whole plan. She wanted to sneak in and wait on your couch.”

Paige let out a broken laugh. “That sounds like her.”

“She loved you so much.”

“I know,” Paige whispered, the first tear falling. “I know.”

And then she couldn’t stop them.

They came all at once—weeks of confusion, silence, fury, grief—crashing over her like a wave she never saw coming.

She sobbed into her hands, whole body trembling.

“She said she was coming,” Paige cried. “I waited. I waited so long.”

Your mother stepped forward, slowly, and sat beside her. She didn’t speak. Just reached for Paige’s hand.

It was cold. Small. Familiar.

“She tried,” she said.

That was all.

And it was everything.

That night, Paige didn’t go out with the team. Didn’t talk to media. Didn’t even turn on the lights when she got back to her hotel room.

She laid in bed, clutching her phone.

Opened your last message—the one with the bracelet story.

She read it over and over until her eyes blurred.

Then she opened her voicemails. The one you never got to hear.

She hit play.

And for the first time, she let herself believe you heard it after all.

The rest of the Wings flew back to Dallas the next morning.

Paige didn’t.

She sent a text to her coach. “I need a few more days. I’ll explain when I can.” She didn’t get a reply, just three dots. “Take your time. We’ve got you.”

Your mother offered her the guest room without hesitation.

But Paige couldn’t sleep.

She sat in your driveway for almost half an hour before walking inside, her duffel bag untouched in the trunk. The porch creaked the same way it had in high school. The air smelled like cinnamon and old books. The light in the hallway still flickered if you walked too fast.

The house felt like it had been paused mid-laugh.

Your mother gave her a quiet smile. “You can go up if you want.”

Paige hesitated at the stairs.

“I haven’t changed a thing,” she added.

Paige nodded.

And climbed.

Each step was an echo.

Your bedroom door was half-closed.

She pushed it open slowly, like the room might wake up.

It looked exactly the same.

The posters. The scuffed desk. The stack of books under your windowsill. The UConn flag pinned above your bed from the day you got your acceptance letter.

It felt like walking into a snow globe—perfectly preserved, terrifyingly still.

Her legs moved without permission. She stood in the center of the room, eyes darting from corner to corner.

There was the dent in the wall where you’d knocked your chair back too far trying to recreate a TikTok dance.

There was the blanket she gave you senior year—navy blue, your name and hers stitched into the corner like some inside joke you never explained to anyone else.

There was your old lanyard, still hanging from the doorknob.

And then her eyes landed on it.

The photo frame on your nightstand.

It was them.

Her and you.

From sophomore year.

Both in hoodies, half-asleep on your porch swing. She was leaning into you, your arm around her, eyes closed. You were laughing—head tilted, light spilling from you like a secret the world didn’t deserve.

She staggered forward.

Knees hit the side of the bed.

She picked up the frame with trembling hands. Traced your face with her thumb. Pressed it to her chest like it was the only part of you left.

That’s when it broke.

All of it.

The strength. The waiting. The hope. The disbelief.

She collapsed onto your bed in sobs that felt like thunder.

Big, gasping, shoulder-racking sobs.

“Why,” she cried into your pillow, voice muffled, raw. “Why didn’t I pick you up myself? Why didn’t I call more? Send someone? Why wasn’t I there?”

The pillow soaked beneath her. Your scent still faint.

She curled into it like it could answer her.

“God, you were right there. You were coming to me—early. And I didn’t—I didn’t even get to see you.”

The photo dropped from her hand and landed face-up beside her.

Her tears made the glass shimmer.

She pressed her cheek to it.

“Come back,” she whispered. “Please, baby. I don’t know how to live without you.”

She stayed there for what felt like hours.

Maybe it was.

No one came to check. Your mother didn’t knock. She must’ve known—must’ve felt it.

Paige eventually sat up, wiped her eyes on your sweatshirt still folded at the foot of your bed.

Her voice was wrecked when she finally whispered, “I never stopped waiting for you.”

And maybe she never would.

The cemetery was quiet.

The kind of quiet that made you feel like time had paused just long enough for the earth to breathe.

It was a cool, overcast morning—no sun, no shadows. Just that still, aching gray that matched the way Paige’s heart had felt since the moment she heard the words "she was on her way to surprise you."

Your mother had told her where to go.

Plot 47. Near the far oak. The one that turns red the first in fall.

The walk from the parking lot was long.

Paige carried a bouquet in one hand—sunflowers and dahlias, wrapped in twine. You always said they looked like fireworks made out of joy. She never forgot that.

Her other hand stayed tucked in her jacket pocket, fingers curled tight like she might fall apart if she let them open.

When she reached your grave, she just stood.

Still.

Frozen.

Your name was etched in marble now. Sharp, clean lettering. Birth year. Dash. End year.

Too soon. So unfairly soon.

Beneath it, a line she recognized.

She loved loudly. She laughed often. She never said goodbye without meaning it.

Paige bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.

She knelt slowly. Placed the flowers at the base. Adjusted them twice, even though they were already perfect.

And then she sat.

Cross-legged on the grass.

Facing you.

“I thought I’d have more time,” she said quietly.

The breeze stirred the petals.

“I thought you’d walk into my apartment two days early and I’d laugh and tell you you were crazy for not telling me. I thought we’d fight about cabinet space. I thought I’d kiss you every night for the rest of my life.”

She swallowed hard.

“But instead… I’m sitting here. And this is the first time I’ve seen your name in stone.”

A pause.

“I was angry. Your mom called me after a month of silence and I was angry. I didn’t know you were on your way to me. I didn’t know you never made it.”

She looked down, hands clenched in her lap.

“I thought you left me.”

Her breath trembled.

“I didn’t know you were trying to come home.”

She looked up at the sky.

“I would’ve waited at the airport all day if I had known. I would’ve driven to Minnesota and brought you myself. I would’ve done anything, anything, to see you one more time.”

Her jaw tensed. Eyes shined with fresh tears.

“I still talk to you. Every night. I sleep in your hoodie. I make coffee and pour two mugs like an idiot.”

She wiped her face with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

“The team doesn’t ask anymore. I think they’re scared of breaking me. But I’ve already been broken.”

She took a breath.

“But I’m still here.”

The wind picked up. Rustled the oak leaves above.

“I went back to your bedroom,” Paige said. “It looked exactly the same. Like you were just at school and would be home by dinner.”

She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a small laminated photo—the same one that had sat on your nightstand. The one of the two of you from sophomore year. She laid it gently between the flowers and the stone.

“I wanted to leave this with you,” she said. “Because even if I have to move forward, I’m not leaving you. You’re still the best part of me.”

A gust of wind blew through the grass. Paige looked down.

Her voice dropped, barely audible.

“I love you,” she whispered. “And I always will.”

She sat there for a long time.

Telling you about her next game. About the dumplings she finally cooked. About the song that made her think of you last week and how she cried in the car on the way to practice.

She stayed until the sun started peeking out again. Until the clouds began to thin and the shadows returned.

Then she stood. Pressed two fingers to her lips. Then to your name.

And walked away.

The flowers swayed in the breeze behind her.

The picture stayed.

You stayed.

The cheers were deafening.

It was the second round of the playoffs. Dallas had clawed their way in, and now they were clawing their way forward. The whole arena stood as Paige walked toward center court, Rookie of the Year graphic blazing behind her.

Bright lights. Brighter smile.

But behind that smile, a tremor.

She hadn’t slept much the night before. Not because of nerves. But because the one person she wanted to share this with wasn’t there.

Would never be there again.

She stepped forward, hands steady despite the storm inside her. Her name echoed from the speakers. “2025 WNBA Rookie of the Year… Paige Bueckers!”

Applause.

Spotlights.

Cameras flashing.

A league rep handed her the trophy—sleek, metallic, engraved. Her fingers curled around it automatically. Like she was on autopilot.

She turned to the mic.

The crowd quieted.

Her voice started strong.

“Um… wow. This means the world. First of all, thank you to the league, my teammates, my coaches. The Dallas Wings believed in me the second they drafted me, and I hope I’ve made them proud.”

More cheers.

She smiled faintly.

“I want to thank my family. My friends. The fans. And my hometown—Hopkins, I love you.”

More applause.

Then a pause.

She glanced down at the trophy in her hand. Her fingers tightened.

Her voice softened.

“But… there’s someone else I need to thank.”

The arena stilled.

Paige’s throat bobbed.

“She… she should’ve been here. And she almost was.”

The crowd hushed.

Paige blinked up at the rafters like she was asking for strength from a sky that still felt too far away.

“She was the first person who told me I was going to make it here. She saw this moment before I did. She believed in me when I was tired. She reminded me why I loved this game when I couldn’t feel it.”

She looked directly into the camera.

“Thank you for loving me. For believing in me. For being the kindest, brightest part of my life. This award… I share it with you. I dedicate it to you.”

A single tear slid down her cheek.

“You didn’t make it to the game. But you made me. Every piece of me. So I carry you every time I step on this court.”

The crowd began clapping—slow, quiet. Then stronger. Louder.

Rising like a wave.

Paige stepped back from the mic.

She raised the trophy once. Small, solemn.

And whispered, not into the microphone, but just to the air.

“I hope you’re proud of me.”

The cemetery was quiet again.

Autumn had arrived. The oak tree beside your grave had started to turn—flaming reds and soft oranges bleeding down through the branches like a slow goodbye.

Paige walked the familiar path in silence.

No cameras. No team. No PR handlers. No trophy case.

Just her.

And the small velvet-lined box tucked under her arm.

She wore your hoodie. It still smelled faintly like your shampoo. It was a little too worn now, the cuffs fraying. But it was hers. And it had been yours. And that made it holy.

When she reached your grave, she knelt.

The headstone hadn’t changed. Still your name. Still that cruel little dash between two years that weren’t enough. Still that line.

She never said goodbye without meaning it.

Paige set the box down beside the sunflowers and dahlias she’d brought. The same flowers she always did.

She didn’t open the box right away.

Just stared at your name. Let the wind brush over her face. Let the silence wrap around her like a question with no answer.

“I said I’d bring it to you,” she whispered eventually.

Her fingers found the edges of the velvet. She lifted the lid.

Inside was her Rookie of the Year trophy—well, a replica. The league had sent a second version when they needed to display the original. She didn’t correct them. She was glad for it.

Because this one was for you.

She picked it up gently. Placed it against the stone.

“This was yours before it was mine,” she said. “You trained me in the off-seasons. You studied game tape with me. You kept me grounded when I got caught in my own head.”

She exhaled. It sounded like surrender.

“I know I said the words in my speech. But I needed to say them here.”

A leaf drifted down between them.

She smiled faintly.

“I miss you every day. I talk to you before every game. I look for your face in every crowd. I still text you sometimes. Even though I know the only place I can send anything now… is here.”

She touched the trophy. Then the top edge of your headstone.

“I hope wherever you are, you’re still loud. Still laughing. Still correcting my form from the sidelines and making fun of how dramatic I get during interviews.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away.

“I won, baby,” she whispered. “And it should’ve been us holding this together.”

Her voice dropped to something barely audible.

“But I’m still holding it for both of us.”

She leaned forward. Pressed a kiss to the marble.

And then sat beside your grave. Not in mourning.

But in memory.

She stayed until the sky turned pink behind the trees.

Then stood.

One last look at the trophy. At the stone. At the name she loved more than her own.

“I’ll be back,” she said. “That’s a promise.”

And when she walked away, the wind rustled the leaves—gentle, soft, as if the trees themselves whispered back.

I know.

[uncuredturkeybacon]

it’s been a while since that one so i thought it was time for another

𝚜𝚒𝚡 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚜 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which love never ends

The sun filtered in through the half-closed blinds of Paige’s dorm room, casting soft strips of light across the hardwood floor. The room was half-packed—open boxes lined the bed, shoes spilling over the edge, books stacked in leaning towers by the door. A half-empty closet loomed in the corner like a reminder of all the time that had passed and how little of it was left.

You stood near her desk, folding up a Wings hoodie that had been sent in the mail last week, her name stitched in bold on the sleeve.

“She really said number one pick,” you teased gently, holding it up like a trophy.

Paige, sitting cross-legged on her bed, looked up at you and grinned. “She really did. Can you believe that?”

“No,” you said, smile twitching at the corner of your mouth. “But I’m proud of her anyway.”

She tilted her head, her smile dimming into something quieter, more thoughtful. “I’m scared.”

You didn’t answer right away. You folded the hoodie neatly and placed it in the open suitcase at the edge of her bed, smoothing it down like it was fragile.

“I know,” you said softly.

“It’s not the game,” she clarified, glancing at you like she needed you to understand. “I’m not scared about basketball. I’m scared of going without you.”

You walked over and sat beside her, one foot tucked under your knee, your shoulder brushing hers.

“I’ll be there,” you said, firm, not flinching.

Paige leaned her head against your shoulder. “Six months feels like a long time.”

“It’s really not.”

“It feels like it.”

You rested your hand on her thigh, fingers curling just slightly into the fabric of her sweats. She was wearing your high school tee—old and oversized, faded from too many washes. You had given it to her years ago when she’d stolen it after a sleepover and never gave it back. You never asked her to.

“You have a whole season to get through,” you said gently. “I have students to teach and finals to grade and middle schoolers to keep from launching glue sticks at each other. It’ll go fast.”

Paige let out a small breath of laughter. “You really want to be a teacher, huh?”

“I already am. I’m a TA now, remember?” you bumped your shoulder against hers. “And I’ve already got my offer letter. Same school district my mom used to work in. Orientation’s the week after graduation.”

She turned toward you, eyes soft and serious. “That’s incredible.”

“You’re incredible,” you said before you could stop yourself.

Paige blinked, looking down like she needed to hide how fast she blushed. She always got like that when you said things too directly. Too honestly.

She didn’t say anything for a moment.

Then, her voice barely above a whisper, “Are you really gonna come to Dallas?”

You turned toward her fully, one leg sliding off the bed to ground yourself. “Yes.”

“You promise?”

You reached for her hand, threading your fingers together. “I promise.”

Her bottom lip quivered just slightly, and she bit down on it like she could swallow the emotion before it broke the surface.

“You’re not just saying that to make it easier.”

“No, Paige. I mean it.” You squeezed her hand. “Six months from now, I’ll be there. I’ll be in your apartment, probably fighting you for closet space and making you pasta after away games.”

She smiled, even as her eyes welled with tears. “You can’t cook.”

“I’m learning. I made that chicken stir fry last week.”

“That was microwaved chicken stir fry.”

“Still counts.”

She laughed through her tears, leaning in to press her forehead to yours. “God, I love you.”

You closed your eyes. “I love you too.”

There were things you didn’t say—like how terrified you were of her leaving, how the thought of waking up alone in your own dorm made your chest ache. How hard it would be to fall asleep without her cold feet pressing against your calves or her late-night whispered rants about practice drills.

But you also didn’t say how proud you were watching her step into this next chapter. You didn’t need to.

Instead, you kissed her—slow, lingering, full of everything you couldn’t fit into words. When you pulled away, her eyes stayed closed like she was memorizing the shape of your mouth.

“You’ll call?” she whispered.

“Every night,” you said. “Even if it’s just to hear you breathe.”

“That’s weird,” she teased.

“That’s love.”

She leaned into your chest, burying her face in your neck, and you held her. You didn’t move for a long time.

When she left for the airport the next morning, her fingers gripped yours until the last possible moment. You kissed her like you were writing a promise into her mouth. Six months, you told her again. You’ll be there in six months.

And as she stepped through the terminal gate, looking back at you with tears in her eyes and her Wings hoodie pulled tight around her, you smiled through your own heartbreak.

Because you meant it.

And because some promises don’t need reminders.

They just need time.

Dallas felt bigger than it looked on a map.

Everything about it—traffic, heat, even the sky—seemed stretched, like someone had pulled the edges of a familiar world just far enough to make it unrecognizable.

Paige sat alone on the living room floor of her new apartment, a half-unpacked box of plates beside her and a phone balanced on her knee. Her wallpaper was still a photo of you— blurry, mid-laugh, sitting cross-legged in the grass at a park. It was from a late spring picnic, right before you both had to pretend you weren’t about to say goodbye.

She stared at the screen like it might blink and bring you back.

You answered after the third ring, your voice a little breathless. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Paige whispered. It came out softer than she meant. Her chest ached.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” you asked.

“No. Just… sitting.”

“On the floor?”

“Yeah. I don’t know where my couch screws went. I might be living a cushion life for a while.”

You laughed—real, warm, familiar. Paige closed her eyes and let it coat the inside of her ribs.

“That’s kind of poetic,” you said. “Starting your WNBA career on the floor of an empty apartment.”

“Feels more pathetic than poetic.”

“No. I like it. It’s humble.”

Paige exhaled, and her voice cracked just slightly. “I miss you.”

The line was quiet for a second. Then you spoke, your voice gentler. “I miss you too.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. “I keep forgetting you’re not ten minutes away. Like today, I had a good practice, and my first thought was ‘I’m gonna stop by your place and tell you everything.’ And then I remembered.”

“I know,” you said. “I do that too.”

“I drove past a coffee shop the other day and almost walked in just to see if you’d be there. Even though you’ve never even been to Texas.”

You smiled, she could hear it. “You’re thinking of the one near Gampel, huh?”

“Yeah.” She swallowed. “The one where you studied and I’d show up pretending I needed help with nutrition class.”

“You did need help.”

“Whatever. It worked.”

She leaned her head back against the wall and looked around at the blank space surrounding her. The moving truck had come and gone. The furniture was in, but the soul of the apartment hadn’t arrived yet.

It was still missing you.

“How’s school?” she asked.

“Chaotic,” you replied. “One of the kids asked me today if people in the ‘old times’ had internet. I said, ‘Define old.’ He said, ‘Like 2005.’”

Paige laughed, shaking her head. “Rude.”

“I’m ancient now,” you said. “Twenty-two and deteriorating.”

“You better still have the strength to carry all your stuff up three flights when you get here.”

“Oh, I do. I’m saving it all up for the move.”

Her smile faltered. “You’re still coming, right?”

You went quiet again. Not hesitant—just letting it settle, weighty and certain.

“Of course I am.”

Paige closed her eyes. “Promise?”

“I already did.”

“I just…” Her voice trailed. “It’s hard. Not hearing your keys in the door. Not getting to see your face at the end of the day. I love my team, I really do—but they’re not you.”

“I’m not replacing anyone,” you said. “Just adding to it.”

She let that sit with her. “I want you here so bad it hurts sometimes.”

“I know,” you whispered. “Me too.”

Her voice shook. “I don’t want us to change.”

“We won’t.”

“But long distance changes people.”

“Maybe,” you admitted. “But not us. It might make things harder. But not worse.”

She nodded, even though you couldn’t see it. “I just feel like I’m floating through all this without you. The practices, the press, the apartment—it all feels… half real.”

“Paige,” you said, gentle, firm. “I am coming. I’m not drifting away from you. I’m just walking the longer path to the same place.”

She let the silence wrap around her.

“Say something else,” she said softly. “Just talk to me.”

You paused. “Okay… I hung up pictures in my room. There’s one of us from last spring. You’ve got your mouth full of apple slices and you’re giving me the middle finger because I said you looked like a squirrel.”

She laughed. “I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

Paige smiled, small but genuine. She pictured it. You, in your tiny off-campus apartment. Talking about her like she was still part of your day. She was. You were hers, too.

“I love you,” Paige said.

“I love you more,” you answered.

The days ticked by slower than she liked.

Some nights, she fell asleep with the phone still in her hand, your voice still echoing in her ears from a half-finished conversation. Other nights, she'd stay up scrolling through old pictures, rereading texts, listening to voicemails.

Her teammates teased her about being a hopeless romantic. About how she smiled every time your name came up. About how she always checked her phone like she was waiting for someone to come home.

And she was.

Because in six months—five, now—you would.

And when that day came, Paige knew, no amount of missed calls or empty beds would matter. Because you’d be there. You’d walk through the door with a duffel bag and a tired smile, and she'd finally feel whole again.

But until then… she’d wait.

With her phone in her hand. And your promise in her heart.

The calendar on Paige’s fridge had six weeks circled in red.

It was stupid, maybe, using a physical calendar like some suburban mom—but it grounded her. It gave shape to time that otherwise felt endless. Each “X” she scribbled through a square made the space between now and your arrival just a little smaller.

But it didn’t make the missing hurt any less.

Paige sat curled on the apartment couch, legs tucked under her, bowl of cereal in one hand, phone pressed to her cheek with the other. Her hair was still damp from practice. Her whole body ached—but nothing ached more than the space beside her on the couch.

“I got a voicemail from one of my students today,” your voice said through the speaker. “He said, ‘Miss Y/L/N, I hope you feel better because math was boring without you.’ And then he just hung up. No goodbye. Just vibes.”

Paige chuckled, staring out the window at the pink glow bleeding across the Dallas sky. “You’re their favorite.”

“They’re my favorites too. Even when they call me 'mom' by accident and pretend like it didn’t happen.”

“You do have teacher-mom energy.”

“Oh, shut up,” you said with a laugh. “You miss my teacher-mom energy.”

“Painfully.”

A beat of silence.

“I’m looking at your sweatshirt right now,” you said after a moment. “You left it in my car before you moved. I wore it to bed last night.”

That pulled a breath from Paige she didn’t know she was holding. “Did it still smell like me?”

“It did. Faintly. Like that vanilla lotion you always forget to pack on road trips.”

She smiled. “I haven’t used it since I left.”

“Save it for me?”

“Always.”

She shifted, curling tighter into herself. “Today was hard.”

“Tell me.”

“Team media stuff,” Paige mumbled. “Photos, press questions, PR meetings. They asked about goals. Stats. Leadership. Playmaking. All I could think was, none of that matters until you’re here.”

You were quiet for a moment. “I don’t want to be the reason you’re not present here, Paige.”

“You’re not. You’re the reason I am.” She pressed the heel of her hand into her eye, blinking fast. “I show up every day because I know you’ll be here soon. It’s the only thing keeping me steady.”

You exhaled softly on the other end of the line.

“I’m coming. You know that.”

“I know.”

“But you need to live this part too, babe. Not just wait for me to catch up.”

Paige looked down at the rug. Her socked toe circled the same loop in the fabric she always traced when she was anxious.

“I’m trying,” she whispered.

“I know you are,” you said, gentle and true.

She listened to your breathing—steady, familiar, comforting like a lullaby only she ever got to hear.

“I got your letter,” you said after a pause.

Her breath caught. “You did?”

“It was in my mailbox when I got home today. I read it twice. I cried.”

“Yeah?” Her throat tightened. “I wasn’t sure if I should send it.”

“I’m glad you did.” You paused. “The part where you said you wake up sometimes expecting me to be next to you… that broke me.”

“It breaks me too,” she admitted.

You went quiet, and for a second she thought maybe the call had dropped. But then you spoke, voice lower than before.

“I still sleep on my side of the bed.”

Paige’s eyes burned. “Me too.”

More silence. Not awkward—just full. Weighted. Safe.

“I’ve been drafting lesson plans on weekends,” you said eventually. “Every time I write one, I imagine grading papers at your kitchen table. Coffee beside me. You half-asleep, stealing bites of my breakfast.”

“I want that so bad,” Paige whispered. “Just… life with you.”

“You’ll have it.”

“I’m scared something’s gonna change before then.”

You were quiet. “Do you feel me changing?”

“No,” she answered immediately. “No. I feel you more than ever.”

“Then trust that.”

She let her head fall back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut. “I trust you.”

“Good,” you whispered. “Because I’m not going anywhere. Even if it feels like I’m not close yet—I am. I’m getting closer every single day.”

Paige exhaled shakily. “I need you.”

“You have me.”

It was the kind of sentence Paige wanted to wrap herself in. Warm. Safe. Whole.

“I love you,” she said.

“I love you more,” you replied. “Thirty-nine days.”

She smiled.

Thirty-nine days.

She could wait a little longer.

Paige had never looked at a calendar so obsessively in her life.

Thirteen days.

She’d circled the date in three different colors now. Red, then black, then silver Sharpie because it felt permanent. Final. Like a promise.

Thirteen days until you arrived in Dallas. Thirteen days until she wouldn’t have to fall asleep hugging a pillow that didn’t breathe. Until she wouldn’t have to whisper “I love you” to a lock screen photo anymore.

Her teammates noticed.

“You good, Bueckers?” Arike asked at practice after she botched a layup drill for the third time.

“Yeah. Just… distracted.”

DiJonai raised a brow. “Your girl coming soon?”

Paige glanced down at the court, tried to hide her smile. “Thirteen days.”

Arike let out a low whistle. “We’re about to meet the mysterious teacher girlfriend.”

“She’s real?” Maddy Siegrist joked from the sideline. “I thought y’all made her up for the plot.”

“Shut up,” Paige muttered, but she was grinning.

That night, her phone buzzed with a picture.

You. In the mirror. Hair still damp from a shower, her oversized Wings hoodie falling off one shoulder. The caption underneath said, “Borrowed this. Sorry, not sorry.”

Paige melted into her mattress.

“That’s the only crime I fully endorse.”

Then she FaceTimed you.

You answered almost immediately, face bright despite the bags under your eyes. “Hey, superstar.”

“Hey, thief.”

You smiled. “Caught me.”

“You look good in that.”

“I better. You left it behind for a reason.”

“I did,” Paige said softly. “So you’d have something to hold until I could do it myself again.”

Your face shifted, tenderness blooming at the edges of your eyes. “Two weeks.”

“Twelve days.”

You sighed, smiling into the phone like she’d pressed a kiss to your cheek through the screen. “I packed up my classroom today. Left a note on the desk for the next TA.”

Paige nodded. “It’s real now, huh?”

“It’s always been real,” you said. “But now it’s here. It’s close.”

Paige ran a hand through her hair, breath shaky. “I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“That something will go wrong. That the plane will get canceled. Or your offer will fall through. Or you’ll—”

“I’m coming,” you interrupted, firm, grounding her. “There’s no ‘what if.’ I’m coming. Eleven days and twenty hours. I counted.”

Paige stared at you for a long second.

“Come sleep on the call,” she said quietly.

You blinked. “You want me to fall asleep with you on the phone?”

“I want to hear you breathe,” she whispered. “I want to pretend the distance isn’t real for one night.”

You didn’t hesitate. “Okay.”

She propped her phone up on the pillow beside her. You did the same. It wasn’t perfect—fuzzy audio, a time delay—but it was yours. You talked about nothing for a while. What you made for dinner (pasta), the paper you were editing (some kid plagiarized a poem about dogs), your grocery list for when you moved in (cereal, way too much oat milk, frozen dumplings).

And then it got quiet.

Your voice came soft in the dark, “Ten days tomorrow.”

“I know,” Paige murmured. “It’s starting to feel real.”

“It is real.”

She reached for the screen, like touching glass could bridge miles. “I can’t wait to kiss you again.”

You let out a breath. “Don’t make me cry this late.”

“I just miss you,” Paige said, voice cracking.

“I know, baby. I miss you too.”

Seven days before you arrive, a package showed up at her door with your name scribbled across the top.

Inside was a box of school supplies—pens, Post-its, paper clips—and a hand-written note.

“Figured I should bring some of me to you before I physically can. Can’t wait to leave these all over your kitchen table. Love you always, Your favorite teacher.”

She cried for fifteen minutes after opening it

Four days before, she sat at a team dinner scrolling through your texts, tuning out everything else.

Her phone buzzed.

“T-minus 96 hours. Pack extra chapstick. You’re not escaping all the kisses I owe you.”

She nearly choked on her lemonade.

She didn’t sleep.

She lay on the couch in your sweatshirt, staring at the ceiling, heart galloping in her chest like she was waiting for Christmas morning.

The phone rang at 1:08 AM.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked.

“Nope.”

“Me neither.”

You were quiet together for a while. Then Paige whispered, “Where are you?”

You laughed. “Still in Connecticut. Bags packed. Suitcase by the door. I keep checking my flight time every ten minutes.”

“Me too,” she said. “I keep opening the guest closet to make sure I left you enough space.”

“You didn’t.”

“Guess we’ll be sharing hangers then.” A pause. “Next time I call you,” you said, “it won’t be through a screen.”

Paige closed her eyes. “I’m gonna hold you so tight.”

“I’m gonna let you.”

Two days before.

The sun in Dallas was blinding. Unreasonably bright for a city that had no idea her world was about to tilt.

Paige had just gotten home from practice, keys still in hand, backpack sliding off her shoulder when she grabbed her phone.

One new message from you.

“On the way to my last class now—remind me to tell you about the 8th grader who tried to give me a friendship bracelet today. He said it was for luck on my big move .”

She smiled. She sat on the arm of the couch and typed fast.

“That’s the cutest thing ever.”

Delivered.

No read receipt. That was fine. You were still in class.

An hour passed.

She sent another.

“Dinner’s on me when you land. I bought dumplings. Don’t fight me.”

No response.

She waited.

She called around 9 p.m.

Once. Twice.

Three rings, voicemail.

She left a message.

“Hey, you okay? I know you’ve probably got a million things going on—boxes, checklists, last-minute goodbyes—but… just call me when you get a second, okay? I just want to hear your voice.”

She kept her phone next to her pillow that night, volume up, screen brightness high.

Nothing.

One day before.

The silence clung to her.

She woke with a headache, heart already racing, the cold side of the bed feeling like an accusation.

Still nothing from you.

Paige rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling.

“This is fine,” she whispered to herself. “You’re just busy. You’re probably with your family. Maybe your phone died.”

She called again.

Straight to voicemail.

She texted.

“I’m starting to worry. Just… send me a thumbs up or anything. Please.”

Nothing.

She paced the apartment, uneaten toast still on her plate, coffee gone cold in her mug.

That night, she sat on the kitchen floor in front of the fridge, phone in her lap, eyes red.

“Where are you?” “Baby, please.” “Just tell me you're okay.” “I don’t care if you’re not getting on the plane. I just need to know you're okay.”

She didn’t sleep.

Just stared at the wall.

The day of.

She cleaned the apartment top to bottom.

She couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t cry again.

You were supposed to land at 4:27 p.m.

She stared at the time on her screen—4:00… 4:15… 4:27… 4:40.

No call. No knock at the door. No text.

She scrolled to the airport’s arrival board online. Typed your flight number. Watched it switch from Scheduled to Landed.

Still nothing.

She picked up her phone again. Shaking fingers. Dialed.

Voicemail.

She left one anyway, voice cracking.

“Please don’t do this to me. Please. Just… I need you. I need to know if you’re—if you’re safe. If you changed your mind, I’ll understand. I swear, I’ll understand. Just don’t let it end like this. Not in silence.”

She hung up.

Then slumped down against the front door and broke.

Her body folded over itself. Sobs racked through her like her heart had forgotten how to beat without yours to match it. She stayed there, curled up, whispering your name like a prayer.

She didn’t turn the lights on.

She sat in the dark with your hoodie balled up in her arms and her phone still in her hand.

Her last text read, “I’ll wait by the door.”

But she never heard the knock.

Paige sat on the apartment floor again, back pressed against the kitchen cabinets. The tile was cold beneath her legs. She hadn’t eaten more than toast in 36 hours.

The dumplings were still in the freezer. She hadn’t touched them. Couldn’t.

She refreshed her texts.

Still no read receipts. Still no dots. Still no “Delivered” beneath her messages.

She called again.

Straight to voicemail.

She whispered into the silence like maybe this time the void would answer her.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” she said. “I don’t know if you’re ghosting me or if you’re gone. Please—please—just give me something. Let me hate you. Let me worry. Just don’t let me do both.”

She hung up. Laid down. Didn’t move.

She went to practice. No one said anything until the third missed shot in a row.

“Yo,” Arike called out. “You good, Paige?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just wiped sweat from her brow and threw the ball at the nearest rack.

“Fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I said I’m fine,” Paige snapped, sharper than she meant to. Her voice echoed off the gym walls like a slap.

Her teammates exchanged looks.

“Alright,” Nai said as they walked out of the locker room. “Spill. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Try again.”

Paige exhaled, shoulders slumped. “She was supposed to be here. Three days ago.”

Nai paused. “Wait—your girl? She didn’t come?”

“No call. No text. No voicemail. Nothing.”

Nai’s face softened. “Shit, Paige…”

“I don’t even know if she’s alive.”

“Have you… talked to anyone? Like, her friends, her mom—?”

“She’s private about that. Her family… it’s complicated.”

Nai hesitated. “Did she ever give any signs that she wouldn’t come?”

“No.” Paige blinked hard. “She was excited. We planned everything down to the shelf space. She sent me a letter. She told me she was counting hours. And now it’s just—gone.”

Nai put a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll figure it out.”

Paige flinched. “What if there’s nothing to figure out?”

Nai didn’t answer that.

The team had an off day.

Paige didn’t leave bed.

She watched your old videos on her phone—the ones you sent her when you used to stay up late decorating your classroom or making grilled cheese while dancing around your kitchen.

She watched them on loop until her phone died.

And then she just laid there, eyes burning.

Maddy brought takeout over.

“You need to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I didn’t ask.”

They sat in silence on the couch. Paige pushed rice around her plate without lifting the fork once.

Maddy glanced at her. “Is there any chance she—like, she couldn’t call?”

Paige’s voice cracked. “I don’t know. I’ve thought of everything. Every possibility. Car accident. No service. Anxiety. Cold feet. But it’s been over a week.”

“Have you heard anything?”

Paige shook her head. “Her phone goes straight to voicemail. Her email bounced. Her socials are dark. It’s like she fell off the planet.”

“Bueckers…”

“I keep checking the door,” Paige whispered. “I know she’s not coming, but I can’t help it. I still wake up thinking I’ll hear her keys.”

Maddy’s voice went soft. “You really loved her, huh?”

Paige nodded, eyes shining. “Still do.”

The media started noticing.

Her stats dropped. Her answers got shorter. Smiles didn’t reach her eyes.

In a post-practice interview, someone asked, “Everything okay off the court?”

She blinked, stunned into stillness.

Then nodded once.

But when she got back to the locker room, she cried into her jersey until her shoulders shook and her breath hitched and she didn’t know how to stop.

She texted you again.

“It’s been almost two weeks. Please. I’m not mad. I just need to know if you’re okay. I won’t ask anything else. Just… say something. Anything.”

She stared at the screen for hours.

Nothing.

She scrolled through every old message. Every photo. Every “I love you more.” Every kiss emoji. Every half-finished voice memo you never sent but saved for later.

She played one on loop.

“God, I can’t wait to be there. To be home. With you.”

And then, when her hands couldn’t stop shaking, she recorded one of her own. She didn’t know if it would ever be heard. But she sent it anyway.

“Hey. It’s Paige. I guess this is… my last message. I don’t know if you’re out there, or if you changed your mind, or if something happened and you’re too scared to tell me. But I still love you. And I always will. No matter what.”

She hit send.

And this time, she didn’t wait for the three dots to appear.

There was a new voicemail on Paige’s phone.

Not from you.

Just a spam number, something about her car warranty.

She deleted it without listening.

Your name—your entire thread—was now buried in her messages. She hadn’t opened it in four days. Not because she didn’t care. Because she couldn’t.

Every time she saw it, her stomach clenched. Not from love. From loss.

You had disappeared 25 days ago.

She used to count the days with hope. Now it just felt like proof that people vanish. Even the ones who swore they’d never leave.

Her texts to you had slowed. At first they’d been frantic—ten a day, calls at every hour. Then five a day. Then one. Then every few days.

Now? Nothing in almost a week.

She didn’t even cry anymore.

She just… lived.

Empty. Quiet. Going through the motions.

Practice was quiet. No jokes. No trash talk. Just the dull thud of the ball against hardwood and the squeak of sneakers she barely registered anymore.

Her shooting percentage had dropped 8%.

The coaching staff hadn’t said anything yet, but she could feel it. The stares. The sighs. The weight of eyes tracking her when they thought she wasn’t looking.

After practice, she sat on the locker room bench for ten minutes too long, staring at the wall like it might say something. Like you used to.

She pulled out her phone.

No new messages. No calls.

She scrolled to your contact anyway. Just to see it. Just to remind herself that once, there was a world where your name lit up her screen like sunlight.

She closed the app.

Went home.

Didn’t even shower.

Her phone rang.

She was mid-laundry, a damp towel slung over one arm, the apartment humid from the dryer running too long.

She didn’t check it immediately. Assumed it was Nai or maybe Coach.

It rang again.

She glanced over.

Paused.

Your name.

Your contact photo—the one she took on a lazy spring day, you in her hoodie, your cheeks pink from sun and laughter.

She froze. The call kept ringing. Her thumb hovered. She didn’t move. She just watched it ring. Watched it buzz against the counter like it hadn’t been silent for a month.

Then she let it stop. Didn’t touch it. Didn’t breathe. The screen went dark. She stood still for a long time. It rang again. Same name. Same photo. Same ringtone she hadn’t changed since the day you set it for yourself.

But this time, something cracked in her chest—not a sob, not panic. Just anger. Cold, bitter, exhausted anger.

You didn’t get to vanish for four weeks and come back like nothing happened. You didn’t get to disappear and then dial her number like it was safe to do so. You didn’t get to decide when she hurt. She watched it ring again. Didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

She whispered into the silence, voice flat, “You don’t get to do this to me.”

Then the call ended. And the phone was quiet again. And she sat down on the kitchen floor like she had the first night you didn’t show up. But this time, she didn’t cry. This time, she just turned the phone over, face down.

Let the silence reclaim the room.

The lights at Target Center always made Paige feel electric.

It was different being back here—being home. But nothing about tonight felt comforting.

She was sharp in warmups. Crisp. Clean. Cold. Her jumper was falling like clockwork. Her footwork flawless. Her body obeyed in a way her heart hadn’t for weeks.

She was pissed.

And she was going to take it out on the court.

Fans were already filling in as she paced the baseline, headphones slung around her neck, eyes unfocused as she dribbled through sets.

And then—she saw her.

Your mom.

Sitting alone. Courtside. Seat 3A. The one you said was your favorite seat cause you could watch her without getting blocked by other people.

She was smaller than Paige remembered. Or maybe just older. Her coat was folded neatly in her lap, hands clutching it like it could keep her together.

Paige’s heart stuttered.

She looked away.

Kept warming up.

Refused to let herself feel anything.

Not now. Not after four weeks of unanswered calls. Not after those two rings she let pass without lifting a finger.

She buried the sight of her behind a wall of rage. Let her heartbeat sync with the squeak of shoes, the thud of the ball, the echo of her name being announced with fire in the intro video.

And when the game started?

She was unreal.

Floaters. Crossovers. Mid-range pull-ups that never touched the rim.

By halftime, she had 18 points and 5 assists.

By the end of the third quarter, 27 points, 3 steals, and the crowd was roaring every time she touched the ball.

She didn’t crack. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

Not until the final buzzer sounded.

Not until she saw your mom again.

Still there. Still alone.

Waiting.

She pulled her warmup jacket on and started walking toward the tunnel, jaw tight, jaw locked.

“Paige.” She didn’t stop. “Paige, please.”

No.

No.

She kept walking. One foot in front of the other.

“She didn’t break her promise to you.”

That made her pause.

Your mom’s voice cracked through the noise like a crack in glass.

“She didn’t leave you.”

Paige’s breath caught.

She turned—slow, deliberate.

Your mom was standing now, gripping the railing, eyes already shining with tears.

“She was coming to you,” she whispered. “She never stopped loving you.”

“What did you just say?” Paige’s voice was a whisper.

The older woman’s lips trembled. “Can we… Can we talk somewhere else?”

Paige didn’t respond.

Just reached for her, fingers numb, and pulled her through the tunnel, past a stunned PR intern, down the hallway.

Into the locker room.

Empty.

Silent.

She shut the door behind them. Locked it.

Turned around.

“Say it again,” she said. Not a request. A plea.

Your mother stared at her, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. Her voice was barely there.

“She was on her way to Dallas,” she said. “She left two days early. Wanted to surprise you.”

Paige didn’t move.

“She was so excited. She couldn’t stop smiling. Said she wanted to be there when you got home from practice, said she couldn’t wait another day. She didn’t even tell me. I found the note on the kitchen table.”

Paige’s knees buckled.

She caught herself on the edge of a bench. “No,” she whispered.

“She got in the car that morning. Early. She never made it to the airport.”

Her heart stopped.

“She was hit by a semi on I-95. Fog was thick. The driver didn’t see her. She died on impact.”

Paige didn’t breathe. Couldn’t.

Your mother’s eyes filled again. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t know—how to reach you. I didn’t have your number, not anymore. I tried social media, but…”

“You didn’t call the team?” Paige’s voice was raw.

“I tried, but they didn’t believe me.”

Paige’s hands were shaking.

Your mother took a slow step forward. “She had gifts in the car. Her famous dumplings. Your favorite lotion. And a sweatshirt she swore would make you cry. She had this whole plan. She wanted to sneak in and wait on your couch.”

Paige let out a broken laugh. “That sounds like her.”

“She loved you so much.”

“I know,” Paige whispered, the first tear falling. “I know.”

And then she couldn’t stop them.

They came all at once—weeks of confusion, silence, fury, grief—crashing over her like a wave she never saw coming.

She sobbed into her hands, whole body trembling.

“She said she was coming,” Paige cried. “I waited. I waited so long.”

Your mother stepped forward, slowly, and sat beside her. She didn’t speak. Just reached for Paige’s hand.

It was cold. Small. Familiar.

“She tried,” she said.

That was all.

And it was everything.

That night, Paige didn’t go out with the team. Didn’t talk to media. Didn’t even turn on the lights when she got back to her hotel room.

She laid in bed, clutching her phone.

Opened your last message—the one with the bracelet story.

She read it over and over until her eyes blurred.

Then she opened her voicemails. The one you never got to hear.

She hit play.

And for the first time, she let herself believe you heard it after all.

The rest of the Wings flew back to Dallas the next morning.

Paige didn’t.

She sent a text to her coach. “I need a few more days. I’ll explain when I can.” She didn’t get a reply, just three dots. “Take your time. We’ve got you.”

Your mother offered her the guest room without hesitation.

But Paige couldn’t sleep.

She sat in your driveway for almost half an hour before walking inside, her duffel bag untouched in the trunk. The porch creaked the same way it had in high school. The air smelled like cinnamon and old books. The light in the hallway still flickered if you walked too fast.

The house felt like it had been paused mid-laugh.

Your mother gave her a quiet smile. “You can go up if you want.”

Paige hesitated at the stairs.

“I haven’t changed a thing,” she added.

Paige nodded.

And climbed.

Each step was an echo.

Your bedroom door was half-closed.

She pushed it open slowly, like the room might wake up.

It looked exactly the same.

The posters. The scuffed desk. The stack of books under your windowsill. The UConn flag pinned above your bed from the day you got your acceptance letter.

It felt like walking into a snow globe—perfectly preserved, terrifyingly still.

Her legs moved without permission. She stood in the center of the room, eyes darting from corner to corner.

There was the dent in the wall where you’d knocked your chair back too far trying to recreate a TikTok dance.

There was the blanket she gave you senior year—navy blue, your name and hers stitched into the corner like some inside joke you never explained to anyone else.

There was your old lanyard, still hanging from the doorknob.

And then her eyes landed on it.

The photo frame on your nightstand.

It was them.

Her and you.

From sophomore year.

Both in hoodies, half-asleep on your porch swing. She was leaning into you, your arm around her, eyes closed. You were laughing—head tilted, light spilling from you like a secret the world didn’t deserve.

She staggered forward.

Knees hit the side of the bed.

She picked up the frame with trembling hands. Traced your face with her thumb. Pressed it to her chest like it was the only part of you left.

That’s when it broke.

All of it.

The strength. The waiting. The hope. The disbelief.

She collapsed onto your bed in sobs that felt like thunder.

Big, gasping, shoulder-racking sobs.

“Why,” she cried into your pillow, voice muffled, raw. “Why didn’t I pick you up myself? Why didn’t I call more? Send someone? Why wasn’t I there?”

The pillow soaked beneath her. Your scent still faint.

She curled into it like it could answer her.

“God, you were right there. You were coming to me—early. And I didn’t—I didn’t even get to see you.”

The photo dropped from her hand and landed face-up beside her.

Her tears made the glass shimmer.

She pressed her cheek to it.

“Come back,” she whispered. “Please, baby. I don’t know how to live without you.”

She stayed there for what felt like hours.

Maybe it was.

No one came to check. Your mother didn’t knock. She must’ve known—must’ve felt it.

Paige eventually sat up, wiped her eyes on your sweatshirt still folded at the foot of your bed.

Her voice was wrecked when she finally whispered, “I never stopped waiting for you.”

And maybe she never would.

The cemetery was quiet.

The kind of quiet that made you feel like time had paused just long enough for the earth to breathe.

It was a cool, overcast morning—no sun, no shadows. Just that still, aching gray that matched the way Paige’s heart had felt since the moment she heard the words "she was on her way to surprise you."

Your mother had told her where to go.

Plot 47. Near the far oak. The one that turns red the first in fall.

The walk from the parking lot was long.

Paige carried a bouquet in one hand—sunflowers and dahlias, wrapped in twine. You always said they looked like fireworks made out of joy. She never forgot that.

Her other hand stayed tucked in her jacket pocket, fingers curled tight like she might fall apart if she let them open.

When she reached your grave, she just stood.

Still.

Frozen.

Your name was etched in marble now. Sharp, clean lettering. Birth year. Dash. End year.

Too soon. So unfairly soon.

Beneath it, a line she recognized.

She loved loudly. She laughed often. She never said goodbye without meaning it.

Paige bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.

She knelt slowly. Placed the flowers at the base. Adjusted them twice, even though they were already perfect.

And then she sat.

Cross-legged on the grass.

Facing you.

“I thought I’d have more time,” she said quietly.

The breeze stirred the petals.

“I thought you’d walk into my apartment two days early and I’d laugh and tell you you were crazy for not telling me. I thought we’d fight about cabinet space. I thought I’d kiss you every night for the rest of my life.”

She swallowed hard.

“But instead… I’m sitting here. And this is the first time I’ve seen your name in stone.”

A pause.

“I was angry. Your mom called me after a month of silence and I was angry. I didn’t know you were on your way to me. I didn’t know you never made it.”

She looked down, hands clenched in her lap.

“I thought you left me.”

Her breath trembled.

“I didn’t know you were trying to come home.”

She looked up at the sky.

“I would’ve waited at the airport all day if I had known. I would’ve driven to Minnesota and brought you myself. I would’ve done anything, anything, to see you one more time.”

Her jaw tensed. Eyes shined with fresh tears.

“I still talk to you. Every night. I sleep in your hoodie. I make coffee and pour two mugs like an idiot.”

She wiped her face with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

“The team doesn’t ask anymore. I think they’re scared of breaking me. But I’ve already been broken.”

She took a breath.

“But I’m still here.”

The wind picked up. Rustled the oak leaves above.

“I went back to your bedroom,” Paige said. “It looked exactly the same. Like you were just at school and would be home by dinner.”

She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a small laminated photo—the same one that had sat on your nightstand. The one of the two of you from sophomore year. She laid it gently between the flowers and the stone.

“I wanted to leave this with you,” she said. “Because even if I have to move forward, I’m not leaving you. You’re still the best part of me.”

A gust of wind blew through the grass. Paige looked down.

Her voice dropped, barely audible.

“I love you,” she whispered. “And I always will.”

She sat there for a long time.

Telling you about her next game. About the dumplings she finally cooked. About the song that made her think of you last week and how she cried in the car on the way to practice.

She stayed until the sun started peeking out again. Until the clouds began to thin and the shadows returned.

Then she stood. Pressed two fingers to her lips. Then to your name.

And walked away.

The flowers swayed in the breeze behind her.

The picture stayed.

You stayed.

The cheers were deafening.

It was the second round of the playoffs. Dallas had clawed their way in, and now they were clawing their way forward. The whole arena stood as Paige walked toward center court, Rookie of the Year graphic blazing behind her.

Bright lights. Brighter smile.

But behind that smile, a tremor.

She hadn’t slept much the night before. Not because of nerves. But because the one person she wanted to share this with wasn’t there.

Would never be there again.

She stepped forward, hands steady despite the storm inside her. Her name echoed from the speakers. “2025 WNBA Rookie of the Year… Paige Bueckers!”

Applause.

Spotlights.

Cameras flashing.

A league rep handed her the trophy—sleek, metallic, engraved. Her fingers curled around it automatically. Like she was on autopilot.

She turned to the mic.

The crowd quieted.

Her voice started strong.

“Um… wow. This means the world. First of all, thank you to the league, my teammates, my coaches. The Dallas Wings believed in me the second they drafted me, and I hope I’ve made them proud.”

More cheers.

She smiled faintly.

“I want to thank my family. My friends. The fans. And my hometown—Hopkins, I love you.”

More applause.

Then a pause.

She glanced down at the trophy in her hand. Her fingers tightened.

Her voice softened.

“But… there’s someone else I need to thank.”

The arena stilled.

Paige’s throat bobbed.

“She… she should’ve been here. And she almost was.”

The crowd hushed.

Paige blinked up at the rafters like she was asking for strength from a sky that still felt too far away.

“She was the first person who told me I was going to make it here. She saw this moment before I did. She believed in me when I was tired. She reminded me why I loved this game when I couldn’t feel it.”

She looked directly into the camera.

“Thank you for loving me. For believing in me. For being the kindest, brightest part of my life. This award… I share it with you. I dedicate it to you.”

A single tear slid down her cheek.

“You didn’t make it to the game. But you made me. Every piece of me. So I carry you every time I step on this court.”

The crowd began clapping—slow, quiet. Then stronger. Louder.

Rising like a wave.

Paige stepped back from the mic.

She raised the trophy once. Small, solemn.

And whispered, not into the microphone, but just to the air.

“I hope you’re proud of me.”

The cemetery was quiet again.

Autumn had arrived. The oak tree beside your grave had started to turn—flaming reds and soft oranges bleeding down through the branches like a slow goodbye.

Paige walked the familiar path in silence.

No cameras. No team. No PR handlers. No trophy case.

Just her.

And the small velvet-lined box tucked under her arm.

She wore your hoodie. It still smelled faintly like your shampoo. It was a little too worn now, the cuffs fraying. But it was hers. And it had been yours. And that made it holy.

When she reached your grave, she knelt.

The headstone hadn’t changed. Still your name. Still that cruel little dash between two years that weren’t enough. Still that line.

She never said goodbye without meaning it.

Paige set the box down beside the sunflowers and dahlias she’d brought. The same flowers she always did.

She didn’t open the box right away.

Just stared at your name. Let the wind brush over her face. Let the silence wrap around her like a question with no answer.

“I said I’d bring it to you,” she whispered eventually.

Her fingers found the edges of the velvet. She lifted the lid.

Inside was her Rookie of the Year trophy—well, a replica. The league had sent a second version when they needed to display the original. She didn’t correct them. She was glad for it.

Because this one was for you.

She picked it up gently. Placed it against the stone.

“This was yours before it was mine,” she said. “You trained me in the off-seasons. You studied game tape with me. You kept me grounded when I got caught in my own head.”

She exhaled. It sounded like surrender.

“I know I said the words in my speech. But I needed to say them here.”

A leaf drifted down between them.

She smiled faintly.

“I miss you every day. I talk to you before every game. I look for your face in every crowd. I still text you sometimes. Even though I know the only place I can send anything now… is here.”

She touched the trophy. Then the top edge of your headstone.

“I hope wherever you are, you’re still loud. Still laughing. Still correcting my form from the sidelines and making fun of how dramatic I get during interviews.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away.

“I won, baby,” she whispered. “And it should’ve been us holding this together.”

Her voice dropped to something barely audible.

“But I’m still holding it for both of us.”

She leaned forward. Pressed a kiss to the marble.

And then sat beside your grave. Not in mourning.

But in memory.

She stayed until the sky turned pink behind the trees.

Then stood.

One last look at the trophy. At the stone. At the name she loved more than her own.

“I’ll be back,” she said. “That’s a promise.”

And when she walked away, the wind rustled the leaves—gentle, soft, as if the trees themselves whispered back.

I know.

[uncuredturkeybacon]

then boom.

𝚜𝚒𝚡 𝚖𝚘𝚗𝚝𝚑𝚜 || 𝚙𝚊𝚒𝚐𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚎𝚌𝚔𝚎𝚛𝚜 𝚡 𝚛𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚎𝚛

in which love never ends

The sun filtered in through the half-closed blinds of Paige’s dorm room, casting soft strips of light across the hardwood floor. The room was half-packed—open boxes lined the bed, shoes spilling over the edge, books stacked in leaning towers by the door. A half-empty closet loomed in the corner like a reminder of all the time that had passed and how little of it was left.

You stood near her desk, folding up a Wings hoodie that had been sent in the mail last week, her name stitched in bold on the sleeve.

“She really said number one pick,” you teased gently, holding it up like a trophy.

Paige, sitting cross-legged on her bed, looked up at you and grinned. “She really did. Can you believe that?”

“No,” you said, smile twitching at the corner of your mouth. “But I’m proud of her anyway.”

She tilted her head, her smile dimming into something quieter, more thoughtful. “I’m scared.”

You didn’t answer right away. You folded the hoodie neatly and placed it in the open suitcase at the edge of her bed, smoothing it down like it was fragile.

“I know,” you said softly.

“It’s not the game,” she clarified, glancing at you like she needed you to understand. “I’m not scared about basketball. I’m scared of going without you.”

You walked over and sat beside her, one foot tucked under your knee, your shoulder brushing hers.

“I’ll be there,” you said, firm, not flinching.

Paige leaned her head against your shoulder. “Six months feels like a long time.”

“It’s really not.”

“It feels like it.”

You rested your hand on her thigh, fingers curling just slightly into the fabric of her sweats. She was wearing your high school tee—old and oversized, faded from too many washes. You had given it to her years ago when she’d stolen it after a sleepover and never gave it back. You never asked her to.

“You have a whole season to get through,” you said gently. “I have students to teach and finals to grade and middle schoolers to keep from launching glue sticks at each other. It’ll go fast.”

Paige let out a small breath of laughter. “You really want to be a teacher, huh?”

“I already am. I’m a TA now, remember?” you bumped your shoulder against hers. “And I’ve already got my offer letter. Same school district my mom used to work in. Orientation’s the week after graduation.”

She turned toward you, eyes soft and serious. “That’s incredible.”

“You’re incredible,” you said before you could stop yourself.

Paige blinked, looking down like she needed to hide how fast she blushed. She always got like that when you said things too directly. Too honestly.

She didn’t say anything for a moment.

Then, her voice barely above a whisper, “Are you really gonna come to Dallas?”

You turned toward her fully, one leg sliding off the bed to ground yourself. “Yes.”

“You promise?”

You reached for her hand, threading your fingers together. “I promise.”

Her bottom lip quivered just slightly, and she bit down on it like she could swallow the emotion before it broke the surface.

“You’re not just saying that to make it easier.”

“No, Paige. I mean it.” You squeezed her hand. “Six months from now, I’ll be there. I’ll be in your apartment, probably fighting you for closet space and making you pasta after away games.”

She smiled, even as her eyes welled with tears. “You can’t cook.”

“I’m learning. I made that chicken stir fry last week.”

“That was microwaved chicken stir fry.”

“Still counts.”

She laughed through her tears, leaning in to press her forehead to yours. “God, I love you.”

You closed your eyes. “I love you too.”

There were things you didn’t say—like how terrified you were of her leaving, how the thought of waking up alone in your own dorm made your chest ache. How hard it would be to fall asleep without her cold feet pressing against your calves or her late-night whispered rants about practice drills.

But you also didn’t say how proud you were watching her step into this next chapter. You didn’t need to.

Instead, you kissed her—slow, lingering, full of everything you couldn’t fit into words. When you pulled away, her eyes stayed closed like she was memorizing the shape of your mouth.

“You’ll call?” she whispered.

“Every night,” you said. “Even if it’s just to hear you breathe.”

“That’s weird,” she teased.

“That’s love.”

She leaned into your chest, burying her face in your neck, and you held her. You didn’t move for a long time.

When she left for the airport the next morning, her fingers gripped yours until the last possible moment. You kissed her like you were writing a promise into her mouth. Six months, you told her again. You’ll be there in six months.

And as she stepped through the terminal gate, looking back at you with tears in her eyes and her Wings hoodie pulled tight around her, you smiled through your own heartbreak.

Because you meant it.

And because some promises don’t need reminders.

They just need time.

Dallas felt bigger than it looked on a map.

Everything about it—traffic, heat, even the sky—seemed stretched, like someone had pulled the edges of a familiar world just far enough to make it unrecognizable.

Paige sat alone on the living room floor of her new apartment, a half-unpacked box of plates beside her and a phone balanced on her knee. Her wallpaper was still a photo of you— blurry, mid-laugh, sitting cross-legged in the grass at a park. It was from a late spring picnic, right before you both had to pretend you weren’t about to say goodbye.

She stared at the screen like it might blink and bring you back.

You answered after the third ring, your voice a little breathless. “Hey.”

“Hey,” Paige whispered. It came out softer than she meant. Her chest ached.

“Did I catch you at a bad time?” you asked.

“No. Just… sitting.”

“On the floor?”

“Yeah. I don’t know where my couch screws went. I might be living a cushion life for a while.”

You laughed—real, warm, familiar. Paige closed her eyes and let it coat the inside of her ribs.

“That’s kind of poetic,” you said. “Starting your WNBA career on the floor of an empty apartment.”

“Feels more pathetic than poetic.”

“No. I like it. It’s humble.”

Paige exhaled, and her voice cracked just slightly. “I miss you.”

The line was quiet for a second. Then you spoke, your voice gentler. “I miss you too.”

She bit the inside of her cheek. “I keep forgetting you’re not ten minutes away. Like today, I had a good practice, and my first thought was ‘I’m gonna stop by your place and tell you everything.’ And then I remembered.”

“I know,” you said. “I do that too.”

“I drove past a coffee shop the other day and almost walked in just to see if you’d be there. Even though you’ve never even been to Texas.”

You smiled, she could hear it. “You’re thinking of the one near Gampel, huh?”

“Yeah.” She swallowed. “The one where you studied and I’d show up pretending I needed help with nutrition class.”

“You did need help.”

“Whatever. It worked.”

She leaned her head back against the wall and looked around at the blank space surrounding her. The moving truck had come and gone. The furniture was in, but the soul of the apartment hadn’t arrived yet.

It was still missing you.

“How’s school?” she asked.

“Chaotic,” you replied. “One of the kids asked me today if people in the ‘old times’ had internet. I said, ‘Define old.’ He said, ‘Like 2005.’”

Paige laughed, shaking her head. “Rude.”

“I’m ancient now,” you said. “Twenty-two and deteriorating.”

“You better still have the strength to carry all your stuff up three flights when you get here.”

“Oh, I do. I’m saving it all up for the move.”

Her smile faltered. “You’re still coming, right?”

You went quiet again. Not hesitant—just letting it settle, weighty and certain.

“Of course I am.”

Paige closed her eyes. “Promise?”

“I already did.”

“I just…” Her voice trailed. “It’s hard. Not hearing your keys in the door. Not getting to see your face at the end of the day. I love my team, I really do—but they’re not you.”

“I’m not replacing anyone,” you said. “Just adding to it.”

She let that sit with her. “I want you here so bad it hurts sometimes.”

“I know,” you whispered. “Me too.”

Her voice shook. “I don’t want us to change.”

“We won’t.”

“But long distance changes people.”

“Maybe,” you admitted. “But not us. It might make things harder. But not worse.”

She nodded, even though you couldn’t see it. “I just feel like I’m floating through all this without you. The practices, the press, the apartment—it all feels… half real.”

“Paige,” you said, gentle, firm. “I am coming. I’m not drifting away from you. I’m just walking the longer path to the same place.”

She let the silence wrap around her.

“Say something else,” she said softly. “Just talk to me.”

You paused. “Okay… I hung up pictures in my room. There’s one of us from last spring. You’ve got your mouth full of apple slices and you’re giving me the middle finger because I said you looked like a squirrel.”

She laughed. “I did not.”

“You absolutely did.”

Paige smiled, small but genuine. She pictured it. You, in your tiny off-campus apartment. Talking about her like she was still part of your day. She was. You were hers, too.

“I love you,” Paige said.

“I love you more,” you answered.

The days ticked by slower than she liked.

Some nights, she fell asleep with the phone still in her hand, your voice still echoing in her ears from a half-finished conversation. Other nights, she'd stay up scrolling through old pictures, rereading texts, listening to voicemails.

Her teammates teased her about being a hopeless romantic. About how she smiled every time your name came up. About how she always checked her phone like she was waiting for someone to come home.

And she was.

Because in six months—five, now—you would.

And when that day came, Paige knew, no amount of missed calls or empty beds would matter. Because you’d be there. You’d walk through the door with a duffel bag and a tired smile, and she'd finally feel whole again.

But until then… she’d wait.

With her phone in her hand. And your promise in her heart.

The calendar on Paige’s fridge had six weeks circled in red.

It was stupid, maybe, using a physical calendar like some suburban mom—but it grounded her. It gave shape to time that otherwise felt endless. Each “X” she scribbled through a square made the space between now and your arrival just a little smaller.

But it didn’t make the missing hurt any less.

Paige sat curled on the apartment couch, legs tucked under her, bowl of cereal in one hand, phone pressed to her cheek with the other. Her hair was still damp from practice. Her whole body ached—but nothing ached more than the space beside her on the couch.

“I got a voicemail from one of my students today,” your voice said through the speaker. “He said, ‘Miss Y/L/N, I hope you feel better because math was boring without you.’ And then he just hung up. No goodbye. Just vibes.”

Paige chuckled, staring out the window at the pink glow bleeding across the Dallas sky. “You’re their favorite.”

“They’re my favorites too. Even when they call me 'mom' by accident and pretend like it didn’t happen.”

“You do have teacher-mom energy.”

“Oh, shut up,” you said with a laugh. “You miss my teacher-mom energy.”

“Painfully.”

A beat of silence.

“I’m looking at your sweatshirt right now,” you said after a moment. “You left it in my car before you moved. I wore it to bed last night.”

That pulled a breath from Paige she didn’t know she was holding. “Did it still smell like me?”

“It did. Faintly. Like that vanilla lotion you always forget to pack on road trips.”

She smiled. “I haven’t used it since I left.”

“Save it for me?”

“Always.”

She shifted, curling tighter into herself. “Today was hard.”

“Tell me.”

“Team media stuff,” Paige mumbled. “Photos, press questions, PR meetings. They asked about goals. Stats. Leadership. Playmaking. All I could think was, none of that matters until you’re here.”

You were quiet for a moment. “I don’t want to be the reason you’re not present here, Paige.”

“You’re not. You’re the reason I am.” She pressed the heel of her hand into her eye, blinking fast. “I show up every day because I know you’ll be here soon. It’s the only thing keeping me steady.”

You exhaled softly on the other end of the line.

“I’m coming. You know that.”

“I know.”

“But you need to live this part too, babe. Not just wait for me to catch up.”

Paige looked down at the rug. Her socked toe circled the same loop in the fabric she always traced when she was anxious.

“I’m trying,” she whispered.

“I know you are,” you said, gentle and true.

She listened to your breathing—steady, familiar, comforting like a lullaby only she ever got to hear.

“I got your letter,” you said after a pause.

Her breath caught. “You did?”

“It was in my mailbox when I got home today. I read it twice. I cried.”

“Yeah?” Her throat tightened. “I wasn’t sure if I should send it.”

“I’m glad you did.” You paused. “The part where you said you wake up sometimes expecting me to be next to you… that broke me.”

“It breaks me too,” she admitted.

You went quiet, and for a second she thought maybe the call had dropped. But then you spoke, voice lower than before.

“I still sleep on my side of the bed.”

Paige’s eyes burned. “Me too.”

More silence. Not awkward—just full. Weighted. Safe.

“I’ve been drafting lesson plans on weekends,” you said eventually. “Every time I write one, I imagine grading papers at your kitchen table. Coffee beside me. You half-asleep, stealing bites of my breakfast.”

“I want that so bad,” Paige whispered. “Just… life with you.”

“You’ll have it.”

“I’m scared something’s gonna change before then.”

You were quiet. “Do you feel me changing?”

“No,” she answered immediately. “No. I feel you more than ever.”

“Then trust that.”

She let her head fall back against the couch, eyes fluttering shut. “I trust you.”

“Good,” you whispered. “Because I’m not going anywhere. Even if it feels like I’m not close yet—I am. I’m getting closer every single day.”

Paige exhaled shakily. “I need you.”

“You have me.”

It was the kind of sentence Paige wanted to wrap herself in. Warm. Safe. Whole.

“I love you,” she said.

“I love you more,” you replied. “Thirty-nine days.”

She smiled.

Thirty-nine days.

She could wait a little longer.

Paige had never looked at a calendar so obsessively in her life.

Thirteen days.

She’d circled the date in three different colors now. Red, then black, then silver Sharpie because it felt permanent. Final. Like a promise.

Thirteen days until you arrived in Dallas. Thirteen days until she wouldn’t have to fall asleep hugging a pillow that didn’t breathe. Until she wouldn’t have to whisper “I love you” to a lock screen photo anymore.

Her teammates noticed.

“You good, Bueckers?” Arike asked at practice after she botched a layup drill for the third time.

“Yeah. Just… distracted.”

DiJonai raised a brow. “Your girl coming soon?”

Paige glanced down at the court, tried to hide her smile. “Thirteen days.”

Arike let out a low whistle. “We’re about to meet the mysterious teacher girlfriend.”

“She’s real?” Maddy Siegrist joked from the sideline. “I thought y’all made her up for the plot.”

“Shut up,” Paige muttered, but she was grinning.

That night, her phone buzzed with a picture.

You. In the mirror. Hair still damp from a shower, her oversized Wings hoodie falling off one shoulder. The caption underneath said, “Borrowed this. Sorry, not sorry.”

Paige melted into her mattress.

“That’s the only crime I fully endorse.”

Then she FaceTimed you.

You answered almost immediately, face bright despite the bags under your eyes. “Hey, superstar.”

“Hey, thief.”

You smiled. “Caught me.”

“You look good in that.”

“I better. You left it behind for a reason.”

“I did,” Paige said softly. “So you’d have something to hold until I could do it myself again.”

Your face shifted, tenderness blooming at the edges of your eyes. “Two weeks.”

“Twelve days.”

You sighed, smiling into the phone like she’d pressed a kiss to your cheek through the screen. “I packed up my classroom today. Left a note on the desk for the next TA.”

Paige nodded. “It’s real now, huh?”

“It’s always been real,” you said. “But now it’s here. It’s close.”

Paige ran a hand through her hair, breath shaky. “I’m scared.”

“Of what?”

“That something will go wrong. That the plane will get canceled. Or your offer will fall through. Or you’ll—”

“I’m coming,” you interrupted, firm, grounding her. “There’s no ‘what if.’ I’m coming. Eleven days and twenty hours. I counted.”

Paige stared at you for a long second.

“Come sleep on the call,” she said quietly.

You blinked. “You want me to fall asleep with you on the phone?”

“I want to hear you breathe,” she whispered. “I want to pretend the distance isn’t real for one night.”

You didn’t hesitate. “Okay.”

She propped her phone up on the pillow beside her. You did the same. It wasn’t perfect—fuzzy audio, a time delay—but it was yours. You talked about nothing for a while. What you made for dinner (pasta), the paper you were editing (some kid plagiarized a poem about dogs), your grocery list for when you moved in (cereal, way too much oat milk, frozen dumplings).

And then it got quiet.

Your voice came soft in the dark, “Ten days tomorrow.”

“I know,” Paige murmured. “It’s starting to feel real.”

“It is real.”

She reached for the screen, like touching glass could bridge miles. “I can’t wait to kiss you again.”

You let out a breath. “Don’t make me cry this late.”

“I just miss you,” Paige said, voice cracking.

“I know, baby. I miss you too.”

Seven days before you arrive, a package showed up at her door with your name scribbled across the top.

Inside was a box of school supplies—pens, Post-its, paper clips—and a hand-written note.

“Figured I should bring some of me to you before I physically can. Can’t wait to leave these all over your kitchen table. Love you always, Your favorite teacher.”

She cried for fifteen minutes after opening it

Four days before, she sat at a team dinner scrolling through your texts, tuning out everything else.

Her phone buzzed.

“T-minus 96 hours. Pack extra chapstick. You’re not escaping all the kisses I owe you.”

She nearly choked on her lemonade.

She didn’t sleep.

She lay on the couch in your sweatshirt, staring at the ceiling, heart galloping in her chest like she was waiting for Christmas morning.

The phone rang at 1:08 AM.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked.

“Nope.”

“Me neither.”

You were quiet together for a while. Then Paige whispered, “Where are you?”

You laughed. “Still in Connecticut. Bags packed. Suitcase by the door. I keep checking my flight time every ten minutes.”

“Me too,” she said. “I keep opening the guest closet to make sure I left you enough space.”

“You didn’t.”

“Guess we’ll be sharing hangers then.” A pause. “Next time I call you,” you said, “it won’t be through a screen.”

Paige closed her eyes. “I’m gonna hold you so tight.”

“I’m gonna let you.”

Two days before.

The sun in Dallas was blinding. Unreasonably bright for a city that had no idea her world was about to tilt.

Paige had just gotten home from practice, keys still in hand, backpack sliding off her shoulder when she grabbed her phone.

One new message from you.

“On the way to my last class now—remind me to tell you about the 8th grader who tried to give me a friendship bracelet today. He said it was for luck on my big move .”

She smiled. She sat on the arm of the couch and typed fast.

“That’s the cutest thing ever.”

Delivered.

No read receipt. That was fine. You were still in class.

An hour passed.

She sent another.

“Dinner’s on me when you land. I bought dumplings. Don’t fight me.”

No response.

She waited.

She called around 9 p.m.

Once. Twice.

Three rings, voicemail.

She left a message.

“Hey, you okay? I know you’ve probably got a million things going on—boxes, checklists, last-minute goodbyes—but… just call me when you get a second, okay? I just want to hear your voice.”

She kept her phone next to her pillow that night, volume up, screen brightness high.

Nothing.

One day before.

The silence clung to her.

She woke with a headache, heart already racing, the cold side of the bed feeling like an accusation.

Still nothing from you.

Paige rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling.

“This is fine,” she whispered to herself. “You’re just busy. You’re probably with your family. Maybe your phone died.”

She called again.

Straight to voicemail.

She texted.

“I’m starting to worry. Just… send me a thumbs up or anything. Please.”

Nothing.

She paced the apartment, uneaten toast still on her plate, coffee gone cold in her mug.

That night, she sat on the kitchen floor in front of the fridge, phone in her lap, eyes red.

“Where are you?” “Baby, please.” “Just tell me you're okay.” “I don’t care if you’re not getting on the plane. I just need to know you're okay.”

She didn’t sleep.

Just stared at the wall.

The day of.

She cleaned the apartment top to bottom.

She couldn’t sit still. Couldn’t cry again.

You were supposed to land at 4:27 p.m.

She stared at the time on her screen—4:00… 4:15… 4:27… 4:40.

No call. No knock at the door. No text.

She scrolled to the airport’s arrival board online. Typed your flight number. Watched it switch from Scheduled to Landed.

Still nothing.

She picked up her phone again. Shaking fingers. Dialed.

Voicemail.

She left one anyway, voice cracking.

“Please don’t do this to me. Please. Just… I need you. I need to know if you’re—if you’re safe. If you changed your mind, I’ll understand. I swear, I’ll understand. Just don’t let it end like this. Not in silence.”

She hung up.

Then slumped down against the front door and broke.

Her body folded over itself. Sobs racked through her like her heart had forgotten how to beat without yours to match it. She stayed there, curled up, whispering your name like a prayer.

She didn’t turn the lights on.

She sat in the dark with your hoodie balled up in her arms and her phone still in her hand.

Her last text read, “I’ll wait by the door.”

But she never heard the knock.

Paige sat on the apartment floor again, back pressed against the kitchen cabinets. The tile was cold beneath her legs. She hadn’t eaten more than toast in 36 hours.

The dumplings were still in the freezer. She hadn’t touched them. Couldn’t.

She refreshed her texts.

Still no read receipts. Still no dots. Still no “Delivered” beneath her messages.

She called again.

Straight to voicemail.

She whispered into the silence like maybe this time the void would answer her.

“I don’t know what’s happening,” she said. “I don’t know if you’re ghosting me or if you’re gone. Please—please—just give me something. Let me hate you. Let me worry. Just don’t let me do both.”

She hung up. Laid down. Didn’t move.

She went to practice. No one said anything until the third missed shot in a row.

“Yo,” Arike called out. “You good, Paige?”

She didn’t answer right away. Just wiped sweat from her brow and threw the ball at the nearest rack.

“Fine.”

“You’re not.”

“I said I’m fine,” Paige snapped, sharper than she meant to. Her voice echoed off the gym walls like a slap.

Her teammates exchanged looks.

“Alright,” Nai said as they walked out of the locker room. “Spill. What’s going on?”

“Nothing.”

“Try again.”

Paige exhaled, shoulders slumped. “She was supposed to be here. Three days ago.”

Nai paused. “Wait—your girl? She didn’t come?”

“No call. No text. No voicemail. Nothing.”

Nai’s face softened. “Shit, Paige…”

“I don’t even know if she’s alive.”

“Have you… talked to anyone? Like, her friends, her mom—?”

“She’s private about that. Her family… it’s complicated.”

Nai hesitated. “Did she ever give any signs that she wouldn’t come?”

“No.” Paige blinked hard. “She was excited. We planned everything down to the shelf space. She sent me a letter. She told me she was counting hours. And now it’s just—gone.”

Nai put a hand on her shoulder. “We’ll figure it out.”

Paige flinched. “What if there’s nothing to figure out?”

Nai didn’t answer that.

The team had an off day.

Paige didn’t leave bed.

She watched your old videos on her phone—the ones you sent her when you used to stay up late decorating your classroom or making grilled cheese while dancing around your kitchen.

She watched them on loop until her phone died.

And then she just laid there, eyes burning.

Maddy brought takeout over.

“You need to eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“I didn’t ask.”

They sat in silence on the couch. Paige pushed rice around her plate without lifting the fork once.

Maddy glanced at her. “Is there any chance she—like, she couldn’t call?”

Paige’s voice cracked. “I don’t know. I’ve thought of everything. Every possibility. Car accident. No service. Anxiety. Cold feet. But it’s been over a week.”

“Have you heard anything?”

Paige shook her head. “Her phone goes straight to voicemail. Her email bounced. Her socials are dark. It’s like she fell off the planet.”

“Bueckers…”

“I keep checking the door,” Paige whispered. “I know she’s not coming, but I can’t help it. I still wake up thinking I’ll hear her keys.”

Maddy’s voice went soft. “You really loved her, huh?”

Paige nodded, eyes shining. “Still do.”

The media started noticing.

Her stats dropped. Her answers got shorter. Smiles didn’t reach her eyes.

In a post-practice interview, someone asked, “Everything okay off the court?”

She blinked, stunned into stillness.

Then nodded once.

But when she got back to the locker room, she cried into her jersey until her shoulders shook and her breath hitched and she didn’t know how to stop.

She texted you again.

“It’s been almost two weeks. Please. I’m not mad. I just need to know if you’re okay. I won’t ask anything else. Just… say something. Anything.”

She stared at the screen for hours.

Nothing.

She scrolled through every old message. Every photo. Every “I love you more.” Every kiss emoji. Every half-finished voice memo you never sent but saved for later.

She played one on loop.

“God, I can’t wait to be there. To be home. With you.”

And then, when her hands couldn’t stop shaking, she recorded one of her own. She didn’t know if it would ever be heard. But she sent it anyway.

“Hey. It’s Paige. I guess this is… my last message. I don’t know if you’re out there, or if you changed your mind, or if something happened and you’re too scared to tell me. But I still love you. And I always will. No matter what.”

She hit send.

And this time, she didn’t wait for the three dots to appear.

There was a new voicemail on Paige’s phone.

Not from you.

Just a spam number, something about her car warranty.

She deleted it without listening.

Your name—your entire thread—was now buried in her messages. She hadn’t opened it in four days. Not because she didn’t care. Because she couldn’t.

Every time she saw it, her stomach clenched. Not from love. From loss.

You had disappeared 25 days ago.

She used to count the days with hope. Now it just felt like proof that people vanish. Even the ones who swore they’d never leave.

Her texts to you had slowed. At first they’d been frantic—ten a day, calls at every hour. Then five a day. Then one. Then every few days.

Now? Nothing in almost a week.

She didn’t even cry anymore.

She just… lived.

Empty. Quiet. Going through the motions.

Practice was quiet. No jokes. No trash talk. Just the dull thud of the ball against hardwood and the squeak of sneakers she barely registered anymore.

Her shooting percentage had dropped 8%.

The coaching staff hadn’t said anything yet, but she could feel it. The stares. The sighs. The weight of eyes tracking her when they thought she wasn’t looking.

After practice, she sat on the locker room bench for ten minutes too long, staring at the wall like it might say something. Like you used to.

She pulled out her phone.

No new messages. No calls.

She scrolled to your contact anyway. Just to see it. Just to remind herself that once, there was a world where your name lit up her screen like sunlight.

She closed the app.

Went home.

Didn’t even shower.

Her phone rang.

She was mid-laundry, a damp towel slung over one arm, the apartment humid from the dryer running too long.

She didn’t check it immediately. Assumed it was Nai or maybe Coach.

It rang again.

She glanced over.

Paused.

Your name.

Your contact photo—the one she took on a lazy spring day, you in her hoodie, your cheeks pink from sun and laughter.

She froze. The call kept ringing. Her thumb hovered. She didn’t move. She just watched it ring. Watched it buzz against the counter like it hadn’t been silent for a month.

Then she let it stop. Didn’t touch it. Didn’t breathe. The screen went dark. She stood still for a long time. It rang again. Same name. Same photo. Same ringtone she hadn’t changed since the day you set it for yourself.

But this time, something cracked in her chest—not a sob, not panic. Just anger. Cold, bitter, exhausted anger.

You didn’t get to vanish for four weeks and come back like nothing happened. You didn’t get to disappear and then dial her number like it was safe to do so. You didn’t get to decide when she hurt. She watched it ring again. Didn’t answer. Didn’t move.

She whispered into the silence, voice flat, “You don’t get to do this to me.”

Then the call ended. And the phone was quiet again. And she sat down on the kitchen floor like she had the first night you didn’t show up. But this time, she didn’t cry. This time, she just turned the phone over, face down.

Let the silence reclaim the room.

The lights at Target Center always made Paige feel electric.

It was different being back here—being home. But nothing about tonight felt comforting.

She was sharp in warmups. Crisp. Clean. Cold. Her jumper was falling like clockwork. Her footwork flawless. Her body obeyed in a way her heart hadn’t for weeks.

She was pissed.

And she was going to take it out on the court.

Fans were already filling in as she paced the baseline, headphones slung around her neck, eyes unfocused as she dribbled through sets.

And then—she saw her.

Your mom.

Sitting alone. Courtside. Seat 3A. The one you said was your favorite seat cause you could watch her without getting blocked by other people.

She was smaller than Paige remembered. Or maybe just older. Her coat was folded neatly in her lap, hands clutching it like it could keep her together.

Paige’s heart stuttered.

She looked away.

Kept warming up.

Refused to let herself feel anything.

Not now. Not after four weeks of unanswered calls. Not after those two rings she let pass without lifting a finger.

She buried the sight of her behind a wall of rage. Let her heartbeat sync with the squeak of shoes, the thud of the ball, the echo of her name being announced with fire in the intro video.

And when the game started?

She was unreal.

Floaters. Crossovers. Mid-range pull-ups that never touched the rim.

By halftime, she had 18 points and 5 assists.

By the end of the third quarter, 27 points, 3 steals, and the crowd was roaring every time she touched the ball.

She didn’t crack. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t blink.

Not until the final buzzer sounded.

Not until she saw your mom again.

Still there. Still alone.

Waiting.

She pulled her warmup jacket on and started walking toward the tunnel, jaw tight, jaw locked.

“Paige.” She didn’t stop. “Paige, please.”

No.

No.

She kept walking. One foot in front of the other.

“She didn’t break her promise to you.”

That made her pause.

Your mom’s voice cracked through the noise like a crack in glass.

“She didn’t leave you.”

Paige’s breath caught.

She turned—slow, deliberate.

Your mom was standing now, gripping the railing, eyes already shining with tears.

“She was coming to you,” she whispered. “She never stopped loving you.”

“What did you just say?” Paige’s voice was a whisper.

The older woman’s lips trembled. “Can we… Can we talk somewhere else?”

Paige didn’t respond.

Just reached for her, fingers numb, and pulled her through the tunnel, past a stunned PR intern, down the hallway.

Into the locker room.

Empty.

Silent.

She shut the door behind them. Locked it.

Turned around.

“Say it again,” she said. Not a request. A plea.

Your mother stared at her, chest rising and falling in shallow bursts. Her voice was barely there.

“She was on her way to Dallas,” she said. “She left two days early. Wanted to surprise you.”

Paige didn’t move.

“She was so excited. She couldn’t stop smiling. Said she wanted to be there when you got home from practice, said she couldn’t wait another day. She didn’t even tell me. I found the note on the kitchen table.”

Paige’s knees buckled.

She caught herself on the edge of a bench. “No,” she whispered.

“She got in the car that morning. Early. She never made it to the airport.”

Her heart stopped.

“She was hit by a semi on I-95. Fog was thick. The driver didn’t see her. She died on impact.”

Paige didn’t breathe. Couldn’t.

Your mother’s eyes filled again. “I didn’t know how to tell you. I didn’t know—how to reach you. I didn’t have your number, not anymore. I tried social media, but…”

“You didn’t call the team?” Paige’s voice was raw.

“I tried, but they didn’t believe me.”

Paige’s hands were shaking.

Your mother took a slow step forward. “She had gifts in the car. Her famous dumplings. Your favorite lotion. And a sweatshirt she swore would make you cry. She had this whole plan. She wanted to sneak in and wait on your couch.”

Paige let out a broken laugh. “That sounds like her.”

“She loved you so much.”

“I know,” Paige whispered, the first tear falling. “I know.”

And then she couldn’t stop them.

They came all at once—weeks of confusion, silence, fury, grief—crashing over her like a wave she never saw coming.

She sobbed into her hands, whole body trembling.

“She said she was coming,” Paige cried. “I waited. I waited so long.”

Your mother stepped forward, slowly, and sat beside her. She didn’t speak. Just reached for Paige’s hand.

It was cold. Small. Familiar.

“She tried,” she said.

That was all.

And it was everything.

That night, Paige didn’t go out with the team. Didn’t talk to media. Didn’t even turn on the lights when she got back to her hotel room.

She laid in bed, clutching her phone.

Opened your last message—the one with the bracelet story.

She read it over and over until her eyes blurred.

Then she opened her voicemails. The one you never got to hear.

She hit play.

And for the first time, she let herself believe you heard it after all.

The rest of the Wings flew back to Dallas the next morning.

Paige didn’t.

She sent a text to her coach. “I need a few more days. I’ll explain when I can.” She didn’t get a reply, just three dots. “Take your time. We’ve got you.”

Your mother offered her the guest room without hesitation.

But Paige couldn’t sleep.

She sat in your driveway for almost half an hour before walking inside, her duffel bag untouched in the trunk. The porch creaked the same way it had in high school. The air smelled like cinnamon and old books. The light in the hallway still flickered if you walked too fast.

The house felt like it had been paused mid-laugh.

Your mother gave her a quiet smile. “You can go up if you want.”

Paige hesitated at the stairs.

“I haven’t changed a thing,” she added.

Paige nodded.

And climbed.

Each step was an echo.

Your bedroom door was half-closed.

She pushed it open slowly, like the room might wake up.

It looked exactly the same.

The posters. The scuffed desk. The stack of books under your windowsill. The UConn flag pinned above your bed from the day you got your acceptance letter.

It felt like walking into a snow globe—perfectly preserved, terrifyingly still.

Her legs moved without permission. She stood in the center of the room, eyes darting from corner to corner.

There was the dent in the wall where you’d knocked your chair back too far trying to recreate a TikTok dance.

There was the blanket she gave you senior year—navy blue, your name and hers stitched into the corner like some inside joke you never explained to anyone else.

There was your old lanyard, still hanging from the doorknob.

And then her eyes landed on it.

The photo frame on your nightstand.

It was them.

Her and you.

From sophomore year.

Both in hoodies, half-asleep on your porch swing. She was leaning into you, your arm around her, eyes closed. You were laughing—head tilted, light spilling from you like a secret the world didn’t deserve.

She staggered forward.

Knees hit the side of the bed.

She picked up the frame with trembling hands. Traced your face with her thumb. Pressed it to her chest like it was the only part of you left.

That’s when it broke.

All of it.

The strength. The waiting. The hope. The disbelief.

She collapsed onto your bed in sobs that felt like thunder.

Big, gasping, shoulder-racking sobs.

“Why,” she cried into your pillow, voice muffled, raw. “Why didn’t I pick you up myself? Why didn’t I call more? Send someone? Why wasn’t I there?”

The pillow soaked beneath her. Your scent still faint.

She curled into it like it could answer her.

“God, you were right there. You were coming to me—early. And I didn’t—I didn’t even get to see you.”

The photo dropped from her hand and landed face-up beside her.

Her tears made the glass shimmer.

She pressed her cheek to it.

“Come back,” she whispered. “Please, baby. I don’t know how to live without you.”

She stayed there for what felt like hours.

Maybe it was.

No one came to check. Your mother didn’t knock. She must’ve known—must’ve felt it.

Paige eventually sat up, wiped her eyes on your sweatshirt still folded at the foot of your bed.

Her voice was wrecked when she finally whispered, “I never stopped waiting for you.”

And maybe she never would.

The cemetery was quiet.

The kind of quiet that made you feel like time had paused just long enough for the earth to breathe.

It was a cool, overcast morning—no sun, no shadows. Just that still, aching gray that matched the way Paige’s heart had felt since the moment she heard the words "she was on her way to surprise you."

Your mother had told her where to go.

Plot 47. Near the far oak. The one that turns red the first in fall.

The walk from the parking lot was long.

Paige carried a bouquet in one hand—sunflowers and dahlias, wrapped in twine. You always said they looked like fireworks made out of joy. She never forgot that.

Her other hand stayed tucked in her jacket pocket, fingers curled tight like she might fall apart if she let them open.

When she reached your grave, she just stood.

Still.

Frozen.

Your name was etched in marble now. Sharp, clean lettering. Birth year. Dash. End year.

Too soon. So unfairly soon.

Beneath it, a line she recognized.

She loved loudly. She laughed often. She never said goodbye without meaning it.

Paige bit her lip so hard she tasted blood.

She knelt slowly. Placed the flowers at the base. Adjusted them twice, even though they were already perfect.

And then she sat.

Cross-legged on the grass.

Facing you.

“I thought I’d have more time,” she said quietly.

The breeze stirred the petals.

“I thought you’d walk into my apartment two days early and I’d laugh and tell you you were crazy for not telling me. I thought we’d fight about cabinet space. I thought I’d kiss you every night for the rest of my life.”

She swallowed hard.

“But instead… I’m sitting here. And this is the first time I’ve seen your name in stone.”

A pause.

“I was angry. Your mom called me after a month of silence and I was angry. I didn’t know you were on your way to me. I didn’t know you never made it.”

She looked down, hands clenched in her lap.

“I thought you left me.”

Her breath trembled.

“I didn’t know you were trying to come home.”

She looked up at the sky.

“I would’ve waited at the airport all day if I had known. I would’ve driven to Minnesota and brought you myself. I would’ve done anything, anything, to see you one more time.”

Her jaw tensed. Eyes shined with fresh tears.

“I still talk to you. Every night. I sleep in your hoodie. I make coffee and pour two mugs like an idiot.”

She wiped her face with the sleeve of her sweatshirt.

“The team doesn’t ask anymore. I think they’re scared of breaking me. But I’ve already been broken.”

She took a breath.

“But I’m still here.”

The wind picked up. Rustled the oak leaves above.

“I went back to your bedroom,” Paige said. “It looked exactly the same. Like you were just at school and would be home by dinner.”

She reached into her jacket pocket and pulled out a small laminated photo—the same one that had sat on your nightstand. The one of the two of you from sophomore year. She laid it gently between the flowers and the stone.

“I wanted to leave this with you,” she said. “Because even if I have to move forward, I’m not leaving you. You’re still the best part of me.”

A gust of wind blew through the grass. Paige looked down.

Her voice dropped, barely audible.

“I love you,” she whispered. “And I always will.”

She sat there for a long time.

Telling you about her next game. About the dumplings she finally cooked. About the song that made her think of you last week and how she cried in the car on the way to practice.

She stayed until the sun started peeking out again. Until the clouds began to thin and the shadows returned.

Then she stood. Pressed two fingers to her lips. Then to your name.

And walked away.

The flowers swayed in the breeze behind her.

The picture stayed.

You stayed.

The cheers were deafening.

It was the second round of the playoffs. Dallas had clawed their way in, and now they were clawing their way forward. The whole arena stood as Paige walked toward center court, Rookie of the Year graphic blazing behind her.

Bright lights. Brighter smile.

But behind that smile, a tremor.

She hadn’t slept much the night before. Not because of nerves. But because the one person she wanted to share this with wasn’t there.

Would never be there again.

She stepped forward, hands steady despite the storm inside her. Her name echoed from the speakers. “2025 WNBA Rookie of the Year… Paige Bueckers!”

Applause.

Spotlights.

Cameras flashing.

A league rep handed her the trophy—sleek, metallic, engraved. Her fingers curled around it automatically. Like she was on autopilot.

She turned to the mic.

The crowd quieted.

Her voice started strong.

“Um… wow. This means the world. First of all, thank you to the league, my teammates, my coaches. The Dallas Wings believed in me the second they drafted me, and I hope I’ve made them proud.”

More cheers.

She smiled faintly.

“I want to thank my family. My friends. The fans. And my hometown—Hopkins, I love you.”

More applause.

Then a pause.

She glanced down at the trophy in her hand. Her fingers tightened.

Her voice softened.

“But… there’s someone else I need to thank.”

The arena stilled.

Paige’s throat bobbed.

“She… she should’ve been here. And she almost was.”

The crowd hushed.

Paige blinked up at the rafters like she was asking for strength from a sky that still felt too far away.

“She was the first person who told me I was going to make it here. She saw this moment before I did. She believed in me when I was tired. She reminded me why I loved this game when I couldn’t feel it.”

She looked directly into the camera.

“Thank you for loving me. For believing in me. For being the kindest, brightest part of my life. This award… I share it with you. I dedicate it to you.”

A single tear slid down her cheek.

“You didn’t make it to the game. But you made me. Every piece of me. So I carry you every time I step on this court.”

The crowd began clapping—slow, quiet. Then stronger. Louder.

Rising like a wave.

Paige stepped back from the mic.

She raised the trophy once. Small, solemn.

And whispered, not into the microphone, but just to the air.

“I hope you’re proud of me.”

The cemetery was quiet again.

Autumn had arrived. The oak tree beside your grave had started to turn—flaming reds and soft oranges bleeding down through the branches like a slow goodbye.

Paige walked the familiar path in silence.

No cameras. No team. No PR handlers. No trophy case.

Just her.

And the small velvet-lined box tucked under her arm.

She wore your hoodie. It still smelled faintly like your shampoo. It was a little too worn now, the cuffs fraying. But it was hers. And it had been yours. And that made it holy.

When she reached your grave, she knelt.

The headstone hadn’t changed. Still your name. Still that cruel little dash between two years that weren’t enough. Still that line.

She never said goodbye without meaning it.

Paige set the box down beside the sunflowers and dahlias she’d brought. The same flowers she always did.

She didn’t open the box right away.

Just stared at your name. Let the wind brush over her face. Let the silence wrap around her like a question with no answer.

“I said I’d bring it to you,” she whispered eventually.

Her fingers found the edges of the velvet. She lifted the lid.

Inside was her Rookie of the Year trophy—well, a replica. The league had sent a second version when they needed to display the original. She didn’t correct them. She was glad for it.

Because this one was for you.

She picked it up gently. Placed it against the stone.

“This was yours before it was mine,” she said. “You trained me in the off-seasons. You studied game tape with me. You kept me grounded when I got caught in my own head.”

She exhaled. It sounded like surrender.

“I know I said the words in my speech. But I needed to say them here.”

A leaf drifted down between them.

She smiled faintly.

“I miss you every day. I talk to you before every game. I look for your face in every crowd. I still text you sometimes. Even though I know the only place I can send anything now… is here.”

She touched the trophy. Then the top edge of your headstone.

“I hope wherever you are, you’re still loud. Still laughing. Still correcting my form from the sidelines and making fun of how dramatic I get during interviews.”

A tear slipped down her cheek. She didn’t wipe it away.

“I won, baby,” she whispered. “And it should’ve been us holding this together.”

Her voice dropped to something barely audible.

“But I’m still holding it for both of us.”

She leaned forward. Pressed a kiss to the marble.

And then sat beside your grave. Not in mourning.

But in memory.

She stayed until the sky turned pink behind the trees.

Then stood.

One last look at the trophy. At the stone. At the name she loved more than her own.

“I’ll be back,” she said. “That’s a promise.”

And when she walked away, the wind rustled the leaves—gentle, soft, as if the trees themselves whispered back.

I know.