She flies home today—
    back to Atlanta,
         to Coal,

         to the familiar.

I stay here—
  buried in numbers,
  stats stacked high,

  as the world waits for kickoff.

Somewhere in the madness,
    we’ll steal a moment.

Separate screens,
  opposite teams,

  the way we've come to enjoy it.

She’ll sip something fizzy,
    I’ll crack open a beer—
    the roar of the crowd

    filling the space between us.

And for a few hours—
    we’ll pretend the miles *don’t* matter.

But they do.

Because after the final whistle,
        after the bets are settled,
        after the city outside

        goes quiet again—

She won’t be here.

No victory hug.

No defeat consolation.

Just a phone screen,
     just words,
     just the aching space

     where she’s supposed to be.

I’ll take it…
             for now.

But I know exactly
    what I’d wager—

    to be sitting next to her instead.