Tonight. Tomorrow. Every night after.
Mia stood at the edge of the track, still in her band uniform, her clarinet case bumping against her hip. She didn’t rush the field. That wasn’t their deal. Their deal was the quiet after—the moment when the lights dimmed, the parents went home, and Kyler found her leaning against his truck in the deserted parking lot. it's us tonight kyler quinn
“Hey,” Mia said.
It was the last line of every text, the final whisper before a late-night call ended, the note slipped inside Kyler Quinn’s locker before every away game. Tonight
Mia read the words three times. Then she looked up at him—really looked. The stutter was gone, the secondhand PlayStation replaced by a truck he bought with his own NIL money, but his eyes were the same. Haunted. Hopeful. Hers. Mia stood at the edge of the track,
It’s us tonight.
Bus leaves in 20. Band has to unload at the school.