Stacy

The roar of the crowd was deafening, but I couldn’t bring myself to cheer. My friends were bouncing beside me, faces painted and pom-poms swinging from side to side, the whole spectacle in full force, while I sat with my arms crossed.

I hadn’t wanted to come. But they had insisted—“It’ll be fun,” they said. “You need to get out,” they said.

Instead, I had a front-row seat to watch my ex-boyfriend be the star of yet another damn football game.

The final whistle blew, ...