Black heart, because loving Nebraska is a complicated emotional situation. It's 400 miles of interstate where the only landmarks are a water tower, a grain bin, and a billboard about fireworks. It's wind that comes at you sideways in February like it owes you money, followed by August humidity that turns your driveway into a crockpot. You don't love it in a bright red heart way. You love it the way you love something that has personally humbled you.
This is for people who cry at a red sunset over a bean field, who plan their entire autumn around college football Saturdays, who know cattle outnumber humans and have made peace with that. It's a love that's been tested by hail, tornado sirens, and a 10 p.m. gas station as the only dinner option in a 60 mile radius. Still here. Still ours.
Soft enough to live in, built tough enough to survive the laundry pile, and cut to hang right whether you're on the couch or in the stands.
