The plane hummed steadily, a low, endless sound that felt like it could swallow every thought if I let it.
Outside the window, the clouds drifted by, white, detached, untouchable. Just like the life I'd learned to live.
We were flying back to Manila.
The competition was over, the ceremonies finished, the congratulations given to names that weren't mine.
My parents had left earlier, without so much as a proper goodbye.
Efficiency over empathy.
Always.
Calix sat two rows behind me.
I'd told him I wanted to be alone, and for once, he listened.
The air smelled faintly of metal and perfume.
The lights were dimmed. Passengers were asleep, their faces softened by dreams I could never afford to have.
I turned my head toward the window again, tracing the faint reflection of my face on the glass.
My eyes looked tired, my expression the same one I'd practiced all my life, calm, indifferent, composed.
But somewhere between the hum of the engines and the quiet press of altitude, something gave way.
It started with the smallest ache, somewhere deep in my chest.
The kind that had no shape, no voice.
It just lingered, heavy, patient. I closed my eyes, trying to swallow it down like I always did, but the silence was too vast.
The world too small.
So, for the first time in a long time, I didn't stop it.
A tear slid down my cheek, warm, foreign, disobedient.
Then another.
And another.
No one saw.
No one ever did.
The sound of the engine masked everything; even grief had to be quiet here.
I pressed my palm to the window.
Cold glass against warm skin.
Somewhere far below, the Pacific stretched endlessly, reflecting the faintest hint of moonlight. It was beautiful. And cruel. The kind of beauty that didn't care who was watching.
You lost, a voice whispered inside me.
Not just the match.
Not just the title.
But the illusion that I could still outrun their expectations.
And yet, strangely, there was relief in it.
Because losing meant I could finally stop pretending I was winning.
I wiped the tears with the back of my hand and took a long breath, steady and slow.
When I looked at my reflection again, the softness was gone.
My face was once more what they made it to be, cold, distant, untouchable.
The perfect daughter.
The indifferent wife.
The seatbelt sign blinked above me.
The captain's voice announced turbulence, but I barely heard it.
My thoughts had already drifted elsewhere, to Celeste, to the field, to the sound of my father's disappointment echoing long after he left.
I wasn't sad anymore.
Not exactly.
Just empty.
And emptiness, I'd learned, was safer than hope.
—
When we landed hours later, dawn was breaking over Manila.
Calix met my eyes as we walked out of the plane, curious, searching. I gave him nothing.
He didn't ask what was wrong.
Maybe he already knew.
–
Flashbulbs waited just beyond the gates.
Reporters, photographers, voices rising in the kind of excitement that never cared about truth.
"Ms. Zobel, how does it feel to represent the country abroad?"
"Third place! What went wrong?"
"Do you think marriage affected your focus?"
That one almost made me laugh.
Calix slipped his arm casually around my shoulder, a shield disguised as charm. "No more questions, please," he said smoothly. "My wife's tired."
My wife.
The words felt strange every time I heard them from him, too gentle, too human for the kind of arrangement we had.
But I didn't shrug him off.
Not today.
Our driver was already waiting.
The ride home was long, silent.
The city outside blurred into lights and glass. Calix tried once, quietly, to break the silence.
"You hungry?"
"No."
He nodded, accepting it without another word.
When we reached the condo, I went straight to my unit, leaving him standing in the hallway.
I could feel his eyes on my back, the way he always seemed to watch but never follow.
That was something I respected about him, he knew when to stop.
Inside, everything was exactly as I left it.
Immaculate.
Soulless.
The kind of perfection my mother would approve of. I set my luggage down and went straight to the window. The city stretched endlessly beneath me, pulsing with life I couldn't touch.
My phone buzzed on the counter.
A message from my father:
We'll talk tomorrow. Bring your composure.
No congratulations.
No comfort.
Just command.
I put the phone face-down and opened a bottle of wine.
The first sip burned, then softened, then disappeared into something dangerously close to peace.
I changed out of my travel clothes, tied my hair up, and stood barefoot in the living room, just standing, doing nothing, breathing for once without performance.
Then came the inevitable knock.
Calix.
Of course.
I didn't answer right away.
The second knock was softer. "Aurora," his voice called. "I brought food."
"I said I'm not hungry."
"You said that six hours ago."
I sighed, opened the door just enough to see him.
He was holding a paper bag, his tie loose, hair slightly disheveled from travel.
He didn't look like the rich boy who never cared about anything.
Not tonight.
"Fine," I said. "Leave it there."
He didn't move. "You look like you haven't eaten since we left L.A."
"I look exactly how I want to look."
A faint smile crossed his lips. "You always do."
We stood there, the air between us stretching tight.
For a second, I thought he'd say something else, something reckless.
But instead, he nodded, placed the food by the door, and walked away.
When the elevator doors closed, the silence returned.
I didn't pick up the food.
I just sat on the floor beside it, the cold marble against my skin, and stared at nothing.
My phone buzzed again, this time, a notification from the news.
AURORA ZOBEL FALLS SHORT IN INTERNATIONAL POLO OPEN. THIRD PLACE FINISH STUNS SPECTATORS.
I read the headline once, then turned off the screen.
The world was doing what it always did, talking.
And me? I was doing what I always did, enduring.
Somewhere below, Calix's laughter echoed faintly from his unit.
He was probably on the phone, pretending everything was normal.
That was his talent.
Pretending.
I leaned back against the wall, glass of wine in hand, and whispered to the quiet,
"Normal is overrated."
For a moment, I let myself close my eyes.
The exhaustion from the flight, the match, the years, it all came rushing in, heavy and relentless.
But even then, even with every reason to fall apart, I stayed still.
Because breaking was a luxury I'd never been allowed.