The sun hadn't fully risen when I arrived at the field.
Mist clung to the grass, softening the edges of fences and goalposts.
The air smelled of earth and dew and the faint iron tang of hooves. I liked mornings like this, the world was quiet, empty, and just large enough to forget who was waiting for you to fail.
Celeste pawed at the ground, impatient.
I adjusted her saddle and brushed her mane.
Her silver coat caught the first light, gleaming like it always did, calm and perfect.
She didn't care about expectations or loss or what people thought.
That was why she was my anchor.
The rhythm of my routine soothed me.
Gloves, helmet, reins, stirrups, each motion measured, familiar, necessary.
The echo of my heartbeat matched hers, and suddenly, the chaos of the past days, third place, parental disappointment, media whispers, felt distant. Almost irrelevant.
I didn't notice him at first.
Calix was standing at the edge of the field, coat over his arm, sunglasses shielding his eyes.
He didn't approach.
He didn't speak.
He simply watched.
Quietly.
For a moment, I stiffened.
He wasn't supposed to be here.
This wasn't for anyone else, it was for me.
Not for him, not for my family, not for anyone who had ever judged me.
But the field, Celeste, and I had a rhythm.
And rhythm doesn't care who is watching.
I mounted, and Celeste responded immediately, fluid, controlled, alive.
We ran drills, practiced formations, repeated turns, and perfected the shots.
Sweat ran down my back, my thighs ached, my lungs burned.
I welcomed it.
The pain reminded me I was alive, that I still could push.
That I still had some control.
From the corner of my eye, I could see him.
He stayed at the edge of the field, quiet, but present.
Sometimes he shifted, watching my hands, my posture, the way I leaned into Celeste. Sometimes he would shake his head slightly, a small, subtle smile curving his lips.
I didn't acknowledge him.
I didn't need to.
His presence didn't distract me.
He wasn't an intruder, just a shadow I didn't choose to include.
—
Hours passed like this.
Sweat, repetition, discipline.
Celeste and I moved as one.
When I stopped, he finally approached, not with words, but with a bottle of water and two glasses.
"You're still alive," he said simply.
"I wouldn't be if I weren't," I replied, taking the glass without looking at him.
He handed it over anyway, patient, careful, like he'd done this a hundred times before. "You pushed hard today."
I nodded. "I always do."
"You ever stop?" he asked, voice softer now.
Not teasing, not playful.
Seriously.
I considered answering.
Most people would want to hear about struggle, exhaustion, frustration.
But I didn't see the point. "Not until it's over," I said finally.
He didn't press.
He just drank his own water, letting the silence stretch.
For a long while, we stood there without speaking.
The field glowed under the midday sun, Celeste pawing at the ground, grass sticking to our boots.
I felt the heat on my face, the wind in my hair, the ache in my muscles and for the first time in days, no one's expectations pressed down on me.
Not my parents.
Not the reporters.
Not even Calix.
Just Celeste and me.
And that alone was enough.
Finally, he spoke again. "You know… if you wanted someone to notice you for yourself, not for the family or the match…"
I raised an eyebrow.
"I'd volunteer," he added quickly, almost defensively.
I looked at him for a moment.
Calm.
Unmoved. "Noted."
He chuckled softly. "I'm serious."
"Then be serious elsewhere," I said, and walked toward the barn.
Celeste followed obediently.
He trailed a few steps behind, patient, silent.
Watching, but not interfering.
And that… that was the kind of support I could tolerate.
Quiet.
Respectful.
Unnecessary to explain or thank.
Later, when the sun dipped low and the field was empty, I let Celeste graze while I sat against the fence.
My gloves were still dusty, my boots streaked with mud, my hair tangled.
I was exhausted.
Physically, mentally, emotionally.
But for the first time in a long while, I felt… content.
Not complete, not victorious, but steady.
Calix leaned on the fence beside me, silent again.
He didn't try to talk, didn't try to make me laugh, didn't try to fix me.
And maybe that was the closest thing to understanding either of us had ever come.
I sipped water, watching the sun fall behind the horizon.
Celeste's soft whinnies filled the fading light.
And for a moment, I let myself exist exactly as I was tired, strong, alone, and still standing.
—
The night was warm, the kind of heavy humidity that makes every movement deliberate.
I returned to the condo with Celeste settled in the temporary stable the hotel had arranged, a quiet corner away from the city's lights.
My boots were caked with mud, my gloves stiff with dried sweat, but I felt alive in a way I hadn't in days.
Exhaustion, yes, but that sharp, electric exhaustion that comes from giving everything to something that matters.
The condo smelled faintly of the rain from earlier, clean and sharp.
I peeled off my jacket, letting it fall to the floor, and walked toward the balcony.
The city glimmered below, soft gold and silver lights, alive in spite of the night.
I poured myself a glass of wine and settled into the edge of the railing, letting the quiet settle around me like a shield.
I didn't notice him at first.
"You always look like you're planning your next battle," Calix said softly, leaning against the doorframe. Barefoot, sleeves rolled, that same careless ease he carried everywhere.
"I am," I said simply, not turning to look at him.
"You ever think you could just… stop?"
I laughed quietly, bitter and dry. "Stop? Why? Then I'd have to feel everything I've been holding back. I've spent twenty-six years learning not to. I'm not about to start now."
He didn't argue.
He didn't press.
He simply walked closer and leaned on the balcony railing beside me. "I get it," he said. "You don't want to need anyone. Fine. But you don't have to pretend you don't feel either."
I sipped my wine.
The bitterness matched the taste of the day, of the loss, of my parents' sharp, disappointed eyes. "Pretending isn't about them," I said finally. "It's about surviving by myself."
He was quiet for a long time.
Then, almost cautiously: "You could let someone in… even just a little. Doesn't make you weak."
I didn't answer.
I wasn't used to this kind of conversation, not this soft, careful probing, not this respect for my boundaries. But something in his tone… it didn't command.
I didn't expect it.
It just existed.
The night deepened, lights twinkling below, the city breathing and indifferent.
I let my gaze wander over the skyline, tracing reflections in the windows of other people's lives.
And for the first time, I realized that the armor I carried so carefully wasn't unbreakable. Just disciplined.
And sometimes, disciplined things crack.
Calix didn't say anything more.
He didn't need to.
His presence alone was enough to remind me that someone could care, without judgment, without demands, without a performance expected.
I took another sip of wine, listening to the soft hum of the city, the faint stirrings of life below.
And that, I realized, was enough for tonight.