From the bench, I watched the match play out, my chest tightening with every passing minute.

My teammates—my friends—pushed themselves harder than they ever had.

They ran with everything they had left, racing from one end of the field to the other, falling, getting up, and falling again.

I could feel their determination, their refusal to give up, even as exhaustion took hold of them.

But the Senon High players were relentless.

It was as if they were feeding off the pressure, getting stronger and faster with each passing moment.

Every time we tried to break through, they blocked us with ease.

Every pass we made was countered, every attempt we took was thwarted. And slowly, we began to unravel.

I sat there, helpless, unable to do anything as the game slipped further and further from our grasp.

The crowd, once cheering with hope, fell quieter as the inevitable became clear.

The scoreboard read 3-1, and I could do nothing but watch.

When the final whistle blew, the weight of our loss crashed over us like a wave.

The field, which once held the promise of victory, now felt suffocating.

I saw the dejection on my teammates’ faces, the way their shoulders sagged, their heads hung low.

Even Mr. George, usually so full of optimism, was quiet.

And then, I faced my own failure.

My body, which had betrayed me when I needed it most, felt like a burden I could never escape.

For the first time, I truly hated it. Hated the weakness that had held me back.

I had always been proud of my ability to see the game, to predict movements, to find the perfect paths.

It had made me believe I could contribute, even with my lack of physical strength.

People told me, "You can play football even if you’re weak. It’s about strategy, not size." But now… now I knew that was a lie.

Talent, Genius... all just words, lies.

In football, strength, size, and stamina were everything.

No matter how well I could see the field, no matter how hard I tried, none of it mattered if my body couldn’t keep up.

I could read the game, but I couldn’t stop it.

I was nothing in front of the overwhelming physicality of players like Logan.

The post-game handshakes felt hollow, mechanical.

I shook hands with the Senon High players, my grip weak, avoiding their eyes.

They had earned their victory. We hadn’t even come close.

The next few days passed in a blur.

We returned to school, but the loss lingered in the air like a heavy fog.

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Then came the award ceremony.

It should have been a celebration of our achievements—making it to the finals, giving our best—but I couldn’t bring myself to care.

My head hung low the entire time. I couldn’t even meet the eyes of my friends, my teammates.

Mr. George tried to lift my spirits, clapping me on the back, saying I had given everything.

My friends—Paul, Gunther, Donovan, Steve—told me I had played amazingly, that I had nothing to regret.

But their words only made the knot in my stomach tighter.

If that was my best, then what was the point?

What use was I on the field if, when it mattered most, I couldn’t even stand?

I sat through the ceremony, my mind racing with questions I didn’t want to answer.

Was this really it? Was this all I could give?

As the day came to an end, the cheers and celebrations of others echoed in the background, but they felt distant—like they belonged to another world, one I didn’t have a place in anymore.

Afterwards, life returned to its usual rhythm—school, classes, and the endless cycle of studying.

But something had shifted inside me.

I became quieter, retreating into my textbooks, focusing on academics instead of everything else.

It was as if the fire that once burned so brightly for football had been extinguished.

My friends continued to play, still inviting me to join them.

But each time, I found an excuse, something plausible enough to avoid suspicion.

They noticed, of course.

Their eyes lingered on me a little longer when I turned down their offers, but they never pressed me for answers.

They accepted my silence and moved on.

One afternoon, I sat alone in the classroom, the empty desks around me only amplifying the stillness.

It felt strange to be here, all by myself, while the usual sounds of laughter and shouts echoed from the field outside.

But at the same time, it wasn’t so bad.

The quiet gave me space to think, or at least, pretend I was thinking about something other than what had happened.

I was scribbling notes when I heard a familiar voice behind me.

"Hey, what are you doing here?"

I turned and saw Sarah standing beside my desk, her arms crossed, her eyes studying me.

"Nothing. Just revising some stuff," I said, my tone deliberately light.

"Hmm… why aren’t you joining your friends?" she asked, her brow slightly furrowed.

"I think it’s time I focus on studying, you know?" I joked, trying to deflect the conversation.

Her eyes narrowed, not buying my casual response. "Is it because you’re avoiding football?"

Her words cut through me, sharper than I expected.

I looked down at my open notebook, the scribbled lines blurring before my eyes.

"No," I said, my voice quieter than before. "What nonsense are you talking about?"

"That day…" she began, her voice softening. "When you lost the match, you looked really sad."

She wasn’t wrong. I had been sad.

But it wasn’t the kind of sadness people understood.

"I wasn’t that sad," I shrugged, trying to shake it off, as if it were no big deal.

"You can tell me," she insisted, her voice gentle but firm.

Her eyes locked on mine, refusing to let me hide behind my half-truths.

I sighed, feeling the weight of her gaze, the way it seemed to pull the truth out of me.

"It wasn’t that we lost the match," I began, the words heavy in my mouth.

"Then?" she prompted, her voice barely above a whisper, as if afraid to break the fragile moment.

I hesitated, my thoughts a whirlwind of frustration, self-doubt, and disappointment, all tangled up inside me like a knot I couldn’t unravel.

"It’s because… I realized I’m not suited for football," I finally said, the words heavy, like admitting them made them real.

Sarah’s eyes widened, surprise flickering across her face.

"What are you talking about? You were amazing in every match."

Her words were sincere, but they didn’t comfort me. I shook my head.

"It might’ve looked like that from the outside, but it’s different on the field. You know I have a weak body, Sarah. As I move up and face stronger opponents, their physique, their stamina—it’s only going to get tougher. And at some point, it’ll be impossible for me to keep up."

She opened her mouth to protest, but I wasn’t done.

"But Mr. George said you could be a footballer," she countered, her voice laced with concern.

"Yeah, he said that," I replied, a faint, bitter smile tugging at the corner of my lips.

"But he understands my condition better than anyone."

Her brow furrowed in confusion. "What do you mean?"

I sighed, trying to gather my thoughts.

"You know, Mr. George had to retire from football early because of his injuries. He had so much potential, but his body couldn’t keep up with the demands of the game. And I already have a worse body than he ever did. That’s why he can relate to me—he knows what it’s like to love the game but not be able to play it at the level you want."

Sarah’s eyes softened with understanding, but she wasn’t ready to give up on me.

"But won’t you regret it? Walking away now, without even trying? And what about your friends?"

I felt a sharp pang in my chest at her words, because she was right. I would regret it. I already did.

But there was something deeper gnawing at me, something harder to face.

"Yeah," I admitted, my voice quieter. "I’d regret it. But you know what would feel worse? Giving everything I have, playing my heart out, and still losing. Still feeling helpless, still knowing that no matter how hard I try, my body won’t let me compete with the others. That feeling… that’s worse than any regret."

I couldn’t look at her as I spoke.

"And my friends, I guess, they all already know about it but just hiding it, trying to make me feel better."

My eyes stayed glued to the desk, tracing the lines of my notebook as if they held the answers to all my problems.

For a moment, there was silence between us.

Then Sarah spoke, her voice softer now, almost thoughtful.

"You know… you’ve matured a lot, haven’t you?"

I chuckled, though there was no humor in it.

"I was always mature," I said, though we both knew it wasn’t true.

"Sure, sure," she replied, her tone playful but her smile tinged with sadness.

And just like that, the heaviness of the conversation lifted slightly.

We kept talking, about everything and nothing, and for the first time in a long while, I felt some relief.

It was like sharing the burden with her made it a little easier to carry.

She didn’t push me to reconsider, didn’t give me empty reassurances.

She just listened, and that was enough.

Soon, the day came to an end.

We parted ways, and as I walked home, I couldn’t stop thinking about everything we’d talked about.

There was a strange sense of peace in finally voicing the thoughts that had been gnawing at me, but there was also a lingering sadness, like I was letting go of a part of myself.

Time marched on, and life slowly began to settle into a new routine.

I focused more on my studies, drifting further from football.

My friends still invited me to play, and I still found excuses not to go.

They knew something was different, but they didn’t push.

And I appreciated that.

Then, one day, the buzz around school shifted. The annual party was just one week away, and suddenly, everyone was talking about it.

There was excitement in the air, a chance to celebrate and let loose after a long year.

But for me, it felt distant, like something I couldn’t quite grasp.

I wasn’t sure if I was ready to celebrate anything.

Still, I knew the party would come, and I’d have to face it. Just like everything else.