The moment the door to the unit slid open, my phone vibrated against the counter. I ignored it at first, too tired, too drained from the morning and the afternoon's practice. Then it vibrated again. Insistent.
A message.
Aurora, come to the house tonight. We want to talk about your next competition. You must win this time. – Mom and Dad
I stared at it, thumb hovering over the screen.
The words were sharp, cold, expectations carried like weapons.
I felt nothing, really.
Numb had become second nature.
Yet, somewhere in the pit of my stomach, a familiar coil of tension wound tighter.
Before I could consider my reply, the door clicked.
"I know what that is," Calix said, stepping into the unit.
His expression was casual, easy, but his eyes, sharp, calculating, saw everything. "And you're not going alone."
I didn't look at him. "I can handle it," I said evenly, voice distant, calm.
Cold.
The tone I had perfected over years of expectation and scrutiny.
"I know you can," he said softly. "But you shouldn't have to. I'm coming with you. No arguments."
I finally glanced at him.
The corner of his mouth lifted faintly, almost a smirk.
There was no need to speak, to protest.
His insistence wasn't aggressive, not the way I would find intrusive, it was steady, quiet, immovable.
Fine.
Let him come.
—
The drive to my parents' house was tense, silent, only the faint sound of the city passing by us.
Calix didn't speak much, just allowed me the space to exist, to breathe, to prepare.
The moment we arrived, the cold, precise world I had learned to navigate since childhood greeted me like an old adversary.
My parents stood in the foyer, eyes sharp, lips pressed, judgment radiating in quiet waves.
"Aurora," my father said first, voice low but commanding. "We need to discuss your next competition. No excuses this time."
"Yes," I said softly, carefully neutral, taking measured steps forward.
"You were third last time," my mother continued, voice smooth, but deadly. "Do you understand what that means? Your failure is not just yours, it reflects on the family. On everything we've built."
I didn't flinch.
Didn't respond.
I had heard it all before.
The words had no power over me anymore.
I had survived harsher.
I had endured longer.
Disappointment had long since become irrelevant.
Calix stepped forward then, placing himself subtly between me and my parents. "She's trying her best," he said calmly, firmly. "You can push her, yes. But don't mistake effort for failure. Don't underestimate what she's accomplished. Don't belittle her."
My parents' eyes flicked to him, sharp, calculating, and then back to me. "She has to win this time," my father said, voice tight. "No excuses."
"Yes," I said again. Cold. Neutral. "I understand."
Dinner progressed with the same precision and subtle tension I had learned to navigate all my life.
Plates clinked against porcelain, forks shifted over polished silver.
Conversation was polite, but underlined with expectation, judgment, and criticism carefully veiled as guidance.
Calix didn't let go of my hand under the table.
Not forceful, not demanding, just steady, grounding.
His presence was a shield, subtle but firm.
For the first time in weeks, I didn't feel entirely alone on this battlefield.
I finished my meal, eyes forward, expression untouched, posture perfect.
The world expected perfection.
I had delivered it.
When we left the house, the night was cool, quiet.
I stepped toward the car, mind preoccupied with the sharp, harsh words, the expectation, the pressure that had accompanied me all my life.
Then, a hand on my wrist.
Firm.
Guiding.
Pulling me back.
Calix.
Before I could register, he pulled me into an embrace, steady, quiet, unyielding.
My body tensed instinctively, but the tension of the day, the years of expectation, disappointment, and isolation, began to unravel in the warmth of his hold.
I didn't resist.
Not fully.
Not for long.
And then, for the first time in my life, I let the walls fall.
Tears slipped quietly from my eyes, unbidden, unstoppable.
Hot against my skin, burning with a weight I had carried silently for years.
I didn't cry in front of friends, in front of trainers, in front of anyone.
But here, in the steadiness of his arms, I allowed it.
Calix held me without comment, without question, just presence.
Silent, unwavering, protective.
Not judging.
Not poking.
Just letting me exist in the chaos of my own emotions.
I cried quietly, letting it all out, the fear, the pressure, the exhaustion, the relentless weight of expectation.
The first tear wasn't gentle.
The second wasn't polite.
The third carried years of frustration, discipline, and distant longing I had never allowed to surface.
Finally, when the trembling slowed, I leaned back slightly, resting my forehead against his chest.
My hands still gripped him, not for strength, but for support.
"You're… okay," he murmured softly, brushing a hand through my braid. "It's okay. You're allowed to feel it. No one's going to punish you for it."
I shook my head faintly, still silent.
Cold, distant, independent, yet softened.
Vulnerable in the quietest, most secret way.
"You've been carrying this alone for too long," he said quietly, pressing a gentle kiss to the top of my head. "Not anymore."
I didn't speak.
Didn't need to.
The tears had said everything words never could.
—
The car was silent as we drove back to the condo.
I kept my hands folded neatly in my lap, staring at nothing, letting the warmth of Calix's presence settle around me without intrusion.
"You don't have to talk," he said softly, glancing at me from the driver's seat. "You don't have to explain. Not now."
I didn't respond.
Not because I didn't hear him, but because I couldn't.
The tight knot of years, expectation, and perfection had loosened just enough that words felt heavy, unnecessary.
My chest still ached from the release of tears.
My eyes still stung, and yet… a part of me, foreign and unfamiliar, felt lighter.
He reached over once, fingers brushing the back of my hand.
Not intrusive.
Not demanding.
Just there.
A reminder I wasn't alone.
I flinched slightly at first, then allowed my fingers to rest against his, not holding, not squeezing, just resting.
"I don't know what to do sometimes," he said quietly, voice low and almost unsure. "You carry so much. And you've been doing it alone for so long."
I kept my gaze forward, expression cold, distant, untouchable, but inside, a small flicker of acknowledgment burned.
I had never allowed anyone to notice the weight I carried.
"You're… different," I murmured finally, barely audible, voice rough from unspent tears. Not a confession. Not a plea. Just observation.
Calix glanced at me, catching the fleeting softness in my eyes, then smiled faintly, not teasing, not mocking, just understanding. "I know," he said simply. "And I'm not going anywhere."
Words had already proven insufficient.
The silence carried more weight than anything I could have said.
When we arrived at the condo, I stepped out first, the cool night air brushing against damp strands of hair clinging to my face.
He followed, steady and calm, walking beside me.
Inside the unit, the space felt smaller, quieter, yet safe in a way the city outside never had.
I removed my coat slowly, deliberately, letting the ritual of mundane tasks ground me again.
Calix leaned casually against the counter, hands in his pockets, watching silently, not waiting for me to entertain him, just being present.
The tension of the evening, the pressure from my parents, the lingering exhaustion from training, all of it pressed against me, and yet, for the first time in a long time, I didn't feel the need to armor myself completely.
He moved closer, reaching out again, gently touching my shoulder. "You did more than okay tonight," he said softly. "You don't need to carry their expectations. Not all of them. Not anymore."
I let my shoulders relax fractionally, just enough for him to notice.
Not a smile, not relief, just a tiny easing of tension.
That was enough.
That was acknowledgment without surrender.
"Why do you stay?" I asked finally, voice quiet, guarded, curious in a way I hadn't allowed anyone to notice. "Why do you insist on… being here?"
Calix didn't hesitate. "Because you're worth it," he said simply. "And because someone needs to remind you that not everyone sees you as a problem to fix. Some of us just… care."
I didn't know how to respond.
Not with words, not with gestures.
So I simply let the silence stretch, letting it speak for both of us.
.
When he finally stood to leave, I didn't move to stop him.
I didn't invite him to stay.
Yet when he hesitated at the door, his hand on the knob, he looked back at me.
"Sleep," he said softly. "Try to rest. You've earned it."
I nodded faintly, not a full acknowledgment, not a concession, but enough. Enough that he understood I had noticed him.