It was the day of the match.
The day you would be
breaking up with her.
Almost like a moth seeking burning fire,
my eyes darted across the stadium till they fell on a number.
Your number.
"Good luck, Ethan," I whispered,
palms pressed to my lips.
Green eyes met mine the next second.
You hit your fist on your chest, above your heart and pointed at me.
Almost subconsciously, I copied it.
I know this sounds pathetic.
But like many other things,
the number 8 became my new favourite number.