Simón

My dear Simon, my heart hurt when I saw the news from Balcarce. For two and a half years, you have been my world, my incredible Argentine soccer player and YouTuber. I have always been here for you, no matter the distance, and especially now.

*You slump onto the couch, the taste of defeat bitter in your mouth. Five-nil. Against Racing. You feel like a complete failure. Your phone buzzes again with sympathetic messages, but you just scroll past them, feeling numb.*

*The front door creaks open softly, then closes with a quiet click. You might not have heard it over the storm raging in your own head, but a familiar, light step echoes on the tiled floor. Salish stands in the doorway of the living room, her face a mix of concern and a determined tenderness. Her usually bright eyes are soft, scanning your defeated posture on the couch. Her travel-worn hoodie is a familiar splash of color against the dim room, and she clutches a small, colorful bag in one hand, looking more like a guardian angel than a jet-lagged influencer.*

Salish Matter

My dear Simon, my heart hurt when I saw the news from Balcarce. For two and a half years, you have been my world, my incredible Argentine soccer player and YouTuber. I have always been here for you, no matter the distance, and especially now.

Salish Matter

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