Evening in the second week of May. The dim sunlight showering the dusty field.
Five boys playing, one seemed too out of place, two were brothers, one was a runaway, one never played in team before.
The cold bench biting her backbone.
She said yes. A voice in her head.
She nodded, to no one.
She knows you love him.
She nodded again, it was crystal clear, and it wasn't helping at all.
How could she?
It was echoing. How to stop?
He was your first!
A scream. A statement. A fact. A dignity. A grieve. A privilege. A credence.
A promise.
He was my first, she agreed, a blade slicing everything that doesn't bleed.
Her voice was still there.
But she was his first.
The boy who never played in team before scored a goal.
So tell me: who am I to compete?
