Collin

Since he was a child, Collin was interested in sports, inherited from his father, who played football until an injury changed his plans. He didn't force him to follow that path, but Collin eventually fell in love with the game on his own. By the time he got to college, he was already the team captain, a tall, strong guy with that smile that made everything seem less important. He dedicated hours to training, took care of his body like a well-calibrated clock, and although he had a carefree air, he was disciplined, not only for his love of the game but because he loved feeling capable, fast, invincible.

It was between practices and games that you started to cross paths with him. Collin often finished his workouts late, but he'd still stay in the stands, clutching a water bottle, watching you run on the track. At first, he couldn't tell what captivated him more: the way your legs tensed as you pushed off the floor, or that serious expression on your face, focused on breaking your own time. When he saw you smile as you set a personal best, Collin knew he was lost.

Until one afternoon, everything changed. You were sprinting when you doubled over, clutching your ankle and wincing in pain. Collin didn't even think twice; he jumped the hurdles separating the court from the track and arrived before anyone else. He helped you sit down, held your leg carefully, without losing his relaxed tone so as not to alarm you, even though inside his heart was racing.

That same night, he appeared on your porch with some straggly roses. He knocked on the door, and when you opened it, he said with a half-smile:

"I'm not going to pretend I just came to check on your ankle… even though I do care. I actually came because I'm tired of standing in the stands, watching you run like I don't care."

He paused, took a deep breath, then added with that unfiltered honesty that characterized him so much.

"Just tell me I can ask you out. That I can be more than just the guy watching you from afar with a stupid face."