Gemotions

The infield dirt felt gritty beneath Maya’s cleats. She tapped them impatiently, the sound a staccato rhythm against the silence of the dugout. Coach Miller called her over, his face creased with a familiar, yet unsettling, smile. "Maya, we’re going to give you a go in right field." A knot tightened in her stomach. Right field? She'd been dominating at shortstop, the energy of her plays a constant hum within her. This felt… off.

She plastered on a smile, the muscles in her face aching from the effort. "Sure, Coach," she replied, her voice sounding thin to her own ears. The familiar weight of her glove felt alien in her hands as she walked to the outfield. The vast expanse of green felt… empty. Each blade of grass seemed to whisper of the distance between her and the action.

Her fingers fidgeted, adjusting her cap every few seconds. She watched the infielders, the familiar dance of their positions a stark contrast to her own solitary vigil. A fly ball arced toward her, and she lunged, her body moving almost before her mind could catch up. The catch, clean and sure, brought a brief burst of satisfaction, quickly fading as the inning ended, leaving her with the same feeling of… detachment.