Not a red heart. Not a cute little pink one. A black heart, because loving Ohio is less a romance and more a hostage situation you have grown weirdly comfortable with.
This is for the people who have watched all four seasons happen before lunch, who treat a 40 degree February afternoon like a tropical vacation, who put chili on spaghetti and dare you to say something about it. The ones who know the real state bird is the orange construction barrel, who have been spiritually broken by professional sports more times than they can count, and who still get a little misty driving past a cornfield at sunset. Love it, hate it, cannot leave it. That is the whole vibe, printed right on your chest.
Soft, broken in from the first wear, and built to survive the washing machine, the tailgate, and whatever the sky decides to do next. The kind of thing you reach for on autopilot until it quietly becomes your favorite thing you own.
