By evening, the lights of the city shimmered like a thousand empty trophies.
The official dinner was held in one of those hotels my family had their name engraved on, a place where everything smelled like wealth and nothing felt like warmth.
The chandelier above the dining hall dripped with glass light.
Waiters moved like ghosts, serving meals too beautiful to taste.
And at the long marble table sat the people who had shaped every inch of my life, my parents, a handful of sponsors, and Calix Lazaro, seated beside me like a living contradiction to everything I was raised to be.
I sat straight, perfect posture, calm expression.
Every inch of me looked like victory.
"Congratulations, Aurora," one of the board members said. "Your performance today was exceptional."
I smiled faintly. "Thank you."
"She's always been disciplined," my mother added, her voice dripping with pride for the audience's sake. "Ever since she was a child, we knew she would bring honor to the family."
Honor.
That word again.
It never meant happiness.
It never meant peace.
Just a burden dressed as praise.
I took a sip of my wine and let my gaze wander across the table, at the sponsors exchanging smiles, my father already talking about business expansions, my mother charming the journalists.
All of it was noise.
All of it was performance.
Then, there was him.
Calix.
Sitting beside me, silently twirling his fork, his expression unreadable.
When our eyes met, he gave a small, crooked grin, the kind that said "I know you hate every second of this."
And for the first time that night, my lips almost curved. Almost.
My father leaned slightly forward, his voice firm but casual.
"You see, Aurora," he began, "this is what happens when you remember who you are. When you focus."
I set down my glass, my tone polite but empty.
"Yes, Father."
He nodded, satisfied, turning to one of the guests to discuss my upcoming competitions.
As if I wasn't sitting there.
As if I were a medal that could speak.
The dinner went on like that, endless congratulations, scripted gratitude, hollow laughter.
Calix barely spoke.
But I felt his presence beside me, steady, unforced.
He didn't try to interrupt, didn't try to charm the table like he usually would.
He just stayed, like he understood silence better than anyone here ever had.
By dessert, my mother leaned closer, lowering her voice so only I could hear.
"You did well, Aurora. Don't ruin it now. You've finally made us proud."
Her words were sharp, but her smile never faltered.
"I see," I murmured. "I'll remember that."
She patted my hand as if affection could be performed on cue.
When the dinner ended, people gathered for photos.
My parents insisted on the perfect angle, our family framed under golden light, pretending to be whole.
After the cameras flashed, I stepped aside, exhaling slowly.
My head ached from pretending.
Then I felt a gentle touch at my elbow.
Calix.
"Breathe," he murmured.
I looked up at him. "I am breathing."
He chuckled softly. "No, you're surviving. That's not the same thing."
I didn't reply.
He didn't need me to.
He walked me out of the hall, through the back corridor where the sound of applause faded behind us.
The night air outside was cold, quiet, and honest.
"Do you ever get tired of them?" he asked suddenly.
"Every day," I said.
He smiled faintly. "You didn't even think about it."
"I don't have to."
For a moment, we stood there under the silver light, neither speaking.
Then he said softly, "You were incredible today, you know.
Not because you won, but because you looked free."
Free.
The word lingered between us, too fragile to touch.
I turned to him. "Freedom isn't real, Calix. It's just a prettier word for illusion."
He looked at me for a long time, his eyes searching mine.
"Maybe," he said quietly. "But sometimes, illusion is the only thing that keeps people from breaking."
Something inside me shifted, again, that small, traitorous warmth I kept trying to kill.
I looked away first, as always.
"Goodnight, Calix," I said softly.
And before he could answer, I walked toward the car waiting for me, leaving behind the noise, the cameras, and the man who somehow made the world feel less heavy.