I kicked off my heels near the door and walked straight to the balcony.
The city lights pulsed below me, alive and oblivious.
Somewhere in those streets were people fighting to survive, to belong, to matter.
I envied them, in a strange, quiet way.
Their battles had meaning.
Mine only had appearances.
I hadn't spoken to my parents since that morning.
I doubted I would anytime soon.
They would send reminders, calls I wouldn't answer, invitations I wouldn't attend, expectations I'd continue to disappoint.
That was the rhythm of our relationship: control and rebellion disguised as civility.
Celeste's picture sat framed on the shelf, taken the day before the match.
Her coat gleamed under the sunlight, her eyes steady, unafraid.
I touched the edge of the frame gently. "We did our best," I murmured. "That's supposed to be enough, right?"
The unit door opened softly behind me.
I didn't turn.
Calix didn't knock anymore.
He'd stopped pretending to need permission a long time ago.
"You left your door unlocked," he said.
"I was hoping a thief would come and take everything."
"Even me?"
"I said everything, didn't I?"
He laughed under his breath, then walked closer, his footsteps slow against the marble. "You've been quiet."
"I'm always quiet."
"No," he said. "Sometimes you're loud in the way you don't speak."
I turned then, meeting his eyes. He wasn't smiling this time. "What do you want, Calix?"
He shrugged lightly. "Just checking if you're okay."
"I'm always okay."
"You're terrible at lying."
"I'm excellent at surviving."
He moved to the counter, pulling out a bottle of whiskey he'd probably brought himself. "You know what your problem is?" he said, pouring a glass. "You think strength means feeling nothing."
I took the glass from him without asking. "And you think empathy means saving everyone."
He smiled faintly. "Maybe. But at least I still try."
I walked past him, heading toward the couch. "You shouldn't. I'm not one of your projects."
"I know. You're a person I married."
"On paper," I corrected.
He sat across from me, elbows on his knees, eyes sharp but gentle. "Then why does it feel real sometimes?"
"Because you confuse tolerance with affection."
"And you confuse indifference with control."
The silence that followed was long.
Not uncomfortable,just heavy with the truth neither of us wanted to admit.
After a while, I spoke. "I'm training again tomorrow."
"So soon?"
"I don't have the luxury of recovery."
"Who are you doing it for this time?" he asked softly. "Them or you?"
I stared at the glass in my hand, watching the amber light shift inside it. "I don't know yet."
He nodded. "Then figure it out before it kills you."
When he left, I didn't stop him.
I never did.
But that night, after the door closed and the city sank into quiet, I felt something small, stubborn, and dangerous, an urge to prove that not everything in my life was dictated by someone else.
For once, I wanted to ride not because they told me to, not because losing would embarrass them, but because the moment Celeste ran, I could breathe.