Paige Bueckers could easily be mistaken as a work of art created by the very own hands of a blessed angelic being. so mesmerizing and enchanting with those medium-length dirty blonde hair that frames the right side of her face in such a graceful manner. It almost looks too perfect. 

Everything about her seems so unreal. They could probably put you under a spell of attraction, her beauty sucks you into like an hurricane and sweeps you off your feet like a whirlwind.

But you especially love her eyes. The way they could just cast you under a spell whenever you would just have a normal conversation. Her light blue orbs just staring right into you while you're talking, showing she's paying attention to you.

You weren't too keen on making eye contact but for Paige Bueckers it was like nothing but resembling comfort of each other. 

Sitting beside the window table in the school library, admiring her graceful features is something you find yourself doing a lot more than you should. Considering how your supposed task at hand is to read the book on your hold and study for whatever uninteresting lesson you may have coming up. But you never saw yourself doing the task at all.

Who could blame you though. She was definitely captivating with the way the library's dim light hits her defined face and the autumn wind blows on her pretty dirty blonde hair.

And that's as far as it goes for you, the admirer. Admiring her from afar, up close when the chance is present, and maybe get a smile from her if you're lucky enough just for the day. Because it's not exactly like she was a stone-cold kind of girl, she obviously does smile often, just not directed at you. Those smiles from her are not meant for you, but another person.

And this other person, as gentle and delicate as an angel, as beautiful and composed like a painting, was quite art like himself, surreal. Someone of this nature is worthy of holding someone like Paige herself, worthy of being alongside her.

After all, art enhances the beauty of others of the kind, they are meant to be admired together side-by-side, they deserve one another, just like the paintings in a museum. Not the one admiring the art, the audience, the observer, the admirer of the art, however you please in naming them, is there to get a glimpse of the art but never touch.

This other person, is worthy of holding her, but not you. The art but never the admirer.

Art is exceptional, it attracts everyone who holds love for the great things in life. Art is beautiful but is meant for admiring from afar, untouchable.

The room is freezing.

Of course it is. It’s some generic midwestern hotel on the tail end of a road trip through three time zones, and the heater is barely stronger than the chemistry between you and Paige Bueckers—which is to say, dangerously unresolved.

You drop your duffel at the foot of the bed. The bed.

Just one.

“Cozy,” Paige mutters behind you, her voice low, unreadable.

You don’t turn around. “Coach really said ‘figure it out,’ huh?”

She doesn’t laugh. Just tosses her hoodie onto the chair and walks past you to the bathroom. The tension between you two has been simmering all season, on and off court, in locker rooms, during drills. It’s in the way she avoids eye contact when you stretch next to her, the way she never guards you during practice unless forced, the way her fingers brush yours in passing and don’t pull away fast enough.

And now you’re supposed to sleep three feet away from her. After weeks of pretending there’s nothing under the surface.

You sit on the edge of the bed and sigh.

When she comes back out, hair damp, in a UConn t-shirt that’s a little too big and you swear your heart skips. She glances at the bed, then at you. “You want the wall side or the murder side?”

You blink. “You think I’d let someone kill you first?”

A flicker of a smile tugs at her mouth, but it’s gone before you can enjoy it.

She sits beside you. Too close.

“We don’t have to make this weird,” she says, too casually “We’ve been making this weird,” you reply.

Silence. Then—

“Are you mad at me?” she asks.

You turn your head. “What?”

“Since... the weight room. Since I stopped texting you back. You’ve been different.”

That word different hits a nerve. You look at her. She’s staring at the floor like she’s bracing for something.

“I’m not mad, Paige,” you say. “I just stopped waiting around.”

She blinks. Then nods slowly. “Right.”

You lay back on the bed, staring at the ceiling. After a few seconds, you feel her shift beside you, like she might move away, but she doesn’t. Instead, she lies down, mirroring your posture, arms crossed over her chest like a shield.

The silence feels heavier than anything you lifted in the weight room. “Do you ever think about what might’ve happened if we weren’t teammates?” you ask suddenly.

She doesn’t answer right away. “I think about it all the time.”

Your breath catches.

She turns to look at you. You do the same. Her expression is raw. Real.

“I can’t risk it during the season,” she whispers. “You matter too much. I matter too much.”

You scoff gently. “So we just… stay in this middle space forever?”

“I didn’t say that,” she says, eyes flickering to your lips.

The air shifts again. You’re close now. Closer than you’ve ever allowed. Closer than you should be.

And then, slowly but cautiously, she reaches over. Her fingers graze your hand. Not an accident this time.

“Tell me to stop,” she murmurs.

You don’t.

Instead, you turn to her, fully. Hand on her jaw. Your lips almost touching.

“You stop first,” you whisper.