Three Strikes at Midnight

The lightning fractured the sky outside my office window, illuminating the pathetic truth of my 11:47 PM existence: I was still refreshing my ex-girlfriend's Instagram like a desperate teenager, my iPhone screen burning into my retinas.

She'd posted a photo at the baseball stadium. Seventh inning stretch, some new guy's arm draped casually over her shoulder—the same spot where my elbow used to rest during those long Sunday doubleheaders we'd pretended to enjoy together. We'd both hated baseball. That was the joke we shared, the private comedy of two people pretending to be someone else for each other's benefit.

Another flash of lightning, closer this time. The storm mirrored the chaos in my chest. I remembered the night she told me she was leaving, how she'd compared our relationship to a rain delay: suspended indefinitely, both teams waiting in the dugouts, nobody actually playing, just existing in the space between what was and what might never happen again.

"You always strike out looking," she'd said, and the cruelty was how soft her voice was. "You never even swing."

My iPhone buzzed. A notification from my MLB app: the game she was attending had just gone into extra innings. Perfect. Infinite innings, infinite chances— baseball's particular torture. I typed out a text, deleted it. Typed again.

The lightning struck somewhere nearby, power flickering. In that half-second of darkness, I understood something profound: she was never coming back. The stadium lights, the extra innings, the new guy—none of it mattered. I'd been benched for a reason.

I deleted the screenshot of her Instagram post. Then deleted her from my contacts. Then opened the MLB app and bought a single ticket for tomorrow's game.

This time, I'd show up alone. This time, I'd actually watch the damn game.