The NoseBleeds:
 
We never really played ball—just stood in the outfield, tossing thoughts around under the lights. Sometimes we watched the city shimmer, fireworks blooming silently in the distance, like the sky was cheering for something we hadn’t done yet.
It was the summer before everything changed—before college, jobs, and broken-down friendships. We didn’t know it then, but those nights were our last as the people we had always been. The field was our church, our confession booth, our launch pad. That patch of cracked dirt under those dying lights held the last version of us that believed in everything.
The last night we were all there, someone carved Don’t Forget This Place into the back of the bleachers. It’s probably still there, beneath the rust and the vines. The city’s still glowing, still humming, still rising and falling behind the hill.
And sometimes, when the wind’s just right, I swear I can still hear our laughter echo off the fences. We left part of ourselves up there in The Nosebleeds. And maybe, just maybe, that’s where we’re still the truest versions of who we are.