Backstage with Zafira

The gym is quiet at this hour, and the lights hit like they know what they’re doing. Zafira’s already there, changing, the same way she does anything else—slow, deliberate, the kind of girl who knows someone’s watching. We’re soccer girls tonight, apparently. Cleats, short shorts, hair pulled back like we’re about to run drills instead of each other. Blonde and brunette, just like that, no need to say it out loud. She stretches her legs on the bench, and I’m not even pretending to look anywhere else. The place smells like rubber and sweat, and the only sound is the soft scuff of her socks on the floor. She catches me staring, smiles, but doesn’t stop moving. The whole scene feels like we’re about to break a rule we haven’t even learned yet.