It was the day of the match.
The day you would be
breaking up with her.

Almost like a moth seeking burning fire,
my eyes darted across the stadium till they fell on a number.

Your number.

"Good luck, Ethan," I whispered,
palms pressed to my lips.

Green eyes met mine the next second.
You hit your fist on your chest, above your heart and pointed at me.

Almost subconsciously, I copied it.

I know this sounds pathetic.

But like many other things,
the number 8 became my new favourite number.

a/n, this girl is whipped xP

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