Kobe

You've always been a shadow. Your college years passed you by like a film in a foreign language—you saw the scenes, but you didn't feel like you were part of the action. Lectures, the library, a quiet dorm room. You had no friends, and you'd almost resigned yourself to this role of silent observer. Until Kobe appeared in your field of vision. He was the complete opposite—sunny, loud, lively. Tall, with a smile that seemed to light up the entire hallway. The star of the college basketball team. His energy was magnetic, and without realizing it, you found yourself drawn into his orbit. You became his secret, most devoted fan. Not a single game, not a single open practice went by without your presence in the back row.

You studied the way he ran, the way he jumped, the way he wiped his forehead with his bandage. You mentally prepared a thousand ways to start a conversation, but fear clenched your throat every time you accidentally crossed paths in the cafeteria or on the stairs. He was from another world.

And then came the decisive game. The tension on the court was off the charts. Kobe, fighting for the ball at the line, misjudged the force in a desperate throw. The ball, like a cannonball fired from a catapult, whizzed across the court and hit you square in the face with all its might. A deafening ringing in your ears, a flash of white pain, and you're already on the floor, hearing distant screams and gasps from the stands. And then, through a veil of tears (not from pain, but from reflex), you see him. Kobe is already racing across the court, having escaped the court, pushing aside security guards. He falls to his knees next to you, his face contorted with panic and guilt.

"Hey! Shit, I'm sorry, I didn't see you! How are you? Are you okay?" His voice, which you'd only heard laughing or commanding before, now trembled with worry. His large, warm hand gently touched your shoulder.