Weeks had passed.
Weeks of silence, of routine, of pretending that everything inside me had returned to its rightful place.
I told myself I was fine.
That what happened in that quiet night, every word, every look, every kiss, was just a passing moment of weakness.
A brief crack in the armor.
A lapse in discipline.
But now, as I stood inside the familiar scent of the arena, dust, grass, and sweat, I knew the lie had found a home in me.
The crowd murmured in waves, their voices rising and falling like the wind.
Cameras flashed at the entrance gate where I waited with Celeste, her silver mane brushing lightly against my gloves.
She was calm, steady, loyal, everything I was supposed to be.
I ran a hand over her neck, feeling the smoothness of her coat under my palm.
"You ready, girl?" I whispered.
Celeste snorted softly, her dark eyes meeting mine.
There was something grounding about that, something no human had ever given me.
My team bustled around, checking straps and adjusting stirrups.
My trainer gave last-minute reminders, but his voice barely reached me.
My world had narrowed to the rhythmic sound of hooves on the ground and the echo of my heartbeat in my ears.
This was where I belonged or at least, where I'd been told I belonged.
I heard my mother's voice before I saw her.
"Stand straight, Aurora."
The same tone she'd used my entire life.
Elegant, polite, but sharp enough to wound.
I straightened without looking back.
Then my father's voice followed.
"Make sure you win this time. No excuses."
No greeting.
No warmth.
Just expectation dressed in pride.
I nodded, because that was what good daughters did.
Because in my family, obedience was the closest thing to love.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Calix standing near the fence, hands in his pockets, half-hidden behind the crowd.
He looked different in the sunlight, less reckless, more real.
His expression wasn't the usual smirk he wore like a mask.
This time, he just looked… proud.
When our eyes met, it was brief, accidental.
I looked away first.
The announcer's voice echoed through the speakers, calling my name,
"Aurora Aquino, riding Celeste!"
A roar went up from the audience.
My parents' clapping sounded too rehearsed. Cameras turned toward me like rifles.
I mounted Celeste with practiced grace, ignoring the flashbulbs, the whispers, the weight of every gaze demanding perfection.
For a moment, just before we entered the field, I exhaled slowly.
All noise faded.
It was just me and Celeste now.
The girl and the horse.
The mask and the heartbeat.
I tightened my grip on the reins.
"Let's give them a show," I murmured.
And as the gate opened, I rode forward, not for the applause, not for the cameras, not for them.
But for the part of me that still wanted to prove she was alive.
—
The world blurred into motion the moment Celeste took her first stride onto the field.
Everything, the crowd, the noise, the flash of banners, melted into silence.
Only the rhythm remained.
Hooves against earth.
Breath against air.
We moved as one.
Every leap was a memory.
Every turn was a scar I refused to show.
Every second that passed, I shed another layer of the girl who used to seek her parents' approval.
Celeste's muscles tensed beneath me as we approached the first jump.
"Now," I whispered.
And she soared.
The audience gasped, but I didn't hear them.
My pulse beat too loud.
The sound of wind against my helmet drowned out everything else.
We landed smoothly, our movements precise, clean, almost rehearsed by instinct.
I knew every curve of this course.
Every obstacle felt like a ghost I had already faced before.
Failure, expectation, pressure, all of them lined up in front of me, waiting for me to fall again.
But this time, I didn't.
Celeste and I moved through the final round like we were built for it.
And maybe, we were.
Built for control.
Built for performance.
Built to survive under pressure that could crush bones and hearts.
When the final whistle blew, I didn't realize it was over until the crowd erupted into applause.
"First place — Aurora Aquino, riding Celeste!"
The announcer's voice broke through the haze.
First place.
I blinked, trying to feel something.
Joy.
Relief.
Pride.
Anything.
But there was nothing, only a faint ache in my chest that pulsed quietly beneath my calm.
Celeste neighed softly, her breath visible in the cool air. I leaned forward and patted her neck.
"You did good," I murmured.
She had done everything right.
When I looked toward the stands, I found my parents standing.
My mother's smile was wide, practiced, the kind of smile that photographers love.
My father nodded once, his expression unreadable.
They looked proud. But not of me.
They were proud of what my win meant for them.
The cameras surrounded me the moment I dismounted.
Flashes, questions, microphones.
"Aurora, how does it feel to take the title?"
"What's your message for your supporters?"
"Your parents must be so proud!"
I smiled faintly, the polite one I had perfected over years of forced dinners and staged interviews.
"I'm grateful," I said simply.
Grateful.
Not happy.
Not proud.
Just… grateful.
And then I turned away before they could ask more.
Through the blur of people and lights, I saw Calix waiting at the edge of the fence.
No camera on him.
No spotlight.
Just him, hands tucked in his pockets, that familiar half-smile tugging at his lips.
He didn't clap or shout like everyone else.
He just looked at me, quietly, like he saw through the applause and straight into the part of me that still felt empty.
When I reached him, he tilted his head slightly.
"You did it," he said softly.
I shrugged, adjusting my gloves. "It's what they wanted."
"They," he repeated. "Not you?"
I didn't answer.
I didn't have one.
He looked at me for a long moment, then stepped closer, close enough that the noise of the crowd dulled behind us.
"Then I'll be proud for you," he said.
Something shifted in my chest, small but sharp.
No one had ever said that to me before.
And for a moment, just a moment, I let myself believe him.