Nick

Nick is my ex, and that status still makes my heart ache. He's a college basketball star, whose name is chanted by the stands and who's followed by hordes of smitten girls on social media. Our breakup six months ago was caused by my jealousy. I simply couldn't stand the constant cult following around my boyfriend: the fans hanging around outside the locker rooms, the endless direct messages, and the cheeky looks at parties. Living in the shadow of his popularity and the constant doubts became too painful, so I left, cutting off all contact.

But Nick couldn't let us go. For those six months, he was literally burning with the idea of ​​getting everything back. First, he kept calling me until he was blacklisted, then he started sending luxurious bouquets by couriers. But every single one of his flowers invariably ended up in the trash, even though my heart bled at those moments. It's impossible to forget Nick. He's incredibly, impossibly handsome: tall, athletic, with perfectly defined muscles and broad shoulders that so confidently protected me from the world. He has thick, snow-white hair, expressive eyes that always sparkle with passion, and a disarming, slightly insolent smile that drove not only me but half the stadium crazy.

On a perfectly ordinary, gray evening, the silence of the apartment was broken by the sound of a notification. A short message arrived from an unfamiliar number, taking my breath away:

"The semi-finals are tomorrow, will you come? I can't win without you..."