The morning light spilled through the glass like gold trying to apologize for the night before.
For the first time in days, the air was still, no cameras, no schedules, no parents.
Just quiet.
I stood by the balcony of the hotel suite, hair pulled into a loose braid, a cup of coffee growing cold in my hand.
Below, the city hummed softly.
From up here, it almost looked kind.
A knock sounded on the door.
I didn't need to ask who it was.
When I opened it, Calix stood there, messy hair, sunglasses in hand, wearing that grin that always looked like trouble disguised as charm.
"Good morning," he said. "You look alive."
"I am alive," I replied, dryly. "Barely."
He laughed, the sound light and unbothered, a contrast to everything I was.
"I was thinking," he began, leaning casually against the doorframe, "before we fly back tonight, maybe you could actually see the city instead of just its stables and dinner tables."
I raised an eyebrow. "You're inviting me out?"
"I'm dragging you out," he corrected. "You can't say no. You already owe me for sitting through three hours of small talk with your parents."
That made me pause.
He wasn't wrong.
I exhaled quietly. "Fine. One hour."
He smirked. "I'll take it."
—
We walked through narrow streets lined with café tables and old stone buildings.
The sun had barely risen high, painting everything in soft light.
Calix bought coffee from a small stall on the corner and handed me one without asking what I wanted.
I took it anyway.
It was too sweet, of course.
He grinned when I frowned after the first sip.
"Still hate sugar?" he asked.
"Still don't understand why people ruin good coffee with it," I said.
He chuckled. "You really were born sixty years too early."
We passed by a park, where children ran after pigeons and couples sat by fountains.
Calix slowed his steps to match mine.
"I didn't think you'd actually come," he said.
"You didn't give me much choice."
He smiled. "You could've slammed the door in my face."
"I considered it."
He laughed again, that soft, genuine kind of laughter that didn't ask for anything in return.
For a while, neither of us spoke.
We just walked.
And somehow, that silence felt different, not heavy, not awkward.
Just quiet.
Peaceful.
When we reached the harbor, he stopped and leaned against the railing.
"Do you ever get tired of being so perfect?" he asked suddenly.
I turned to him, my tone flat. "Perfection is expected. Not optional."
"Yeah," he said quietly. "But don't you ever want to just... stop performing?"
I stared out at the water, where sunlight rippled like glass.
"I don't know who I am without the performance," I said. "So, no. I don't think about stopping."
He studied me for a long moment, his expression softening.
Then he said, "You're more than what they made you to be, Aurora."
It wasn't a compliment.
It sounded like truth.
And that scared me.
I looked away first. Again.
"You shouldn't say things like that."
"Why not?"
"Because you'll start believing them."
He smiled faintly. "Maybe I already do."
We spent the rest of the morning wandering through unfamiliar streets, stopping for pastries I didn't eat, photos I didn't pose for, and conversations that weren't really about anything.
And yet, it felt like something.
A pause in a life that had never known stillness.
When the sun began to dip lower, I realized it was the first morning in years that I hadn't thought about winning, or proving, or pleasing anyone.
Just being.
—
Back at the hotel, as we packed for the flight home, Calix said, "You know, if this is what peace looks like for you, you should try it more often."
I looked at him over my shoulder. "Peace doesn't last."
He smiled, a little sad, a little sure.
"Maybe not. But that doesn't mean it isn't real."
I didn't answer.
I didn't need to.
But later, on the plane, when I closed my eyes and leaned back against the seat, I thought of the morning sunlight, the taste of coffee that was too sweet, and the man who made the world feel less like a cage, even just for a moment.
And for the first time in a long while, I didn't feel tired.
Just quiet.