The next morning came like punishment.
I didn't sleep.
My eyes burned, my throat hurt, and every inch of my body felt heavier than it had the night before.
But I still woke up before dawn.
I still wore my boots, brushed Celeste's mane, tightened her saddle.
Because that's what I was taught, pain is personal, performance is not.
The arena was quiet except for the sound of hooves hitting the damp ground.
The rain from last night had left the sand darker, softer, and my reflection flickered faintly in the puddles near the fence.
Every time I blinked, I saw her face.
Every time I inhaled, I heard his voice.
And no matter how fast I rode, I couldn't escape it.
I pushed Celeste harder. She neighed, her breath sharp, her body straining under my command.
"Again," I muttered. "Come on, Celeste, again."
She responded, loyal as ever, galloping through the pattern, her hooves carving the ground with strength I didn't have.
The instructor shouted something from the edge of the arena, but I couldn't hear it.
Or maybe I just didn't care.
All I could hear was the echo of that knock.
That voice.
That towel.
All I could see was trust, breaking.
—
By noon, I was trembling.
My arms were shaking from overuse, my lungs burning.
Sweat rolled down my neck, but I didn't stop.
Stopping meant remembering.
Remembering meant breaking again.
So I kept going.
Over and over.
Until my body started to give out.
When Celeste stumbled slightly at the turn, I realized my grip had weakened.
I dismounted, legs barely steady, and walked her back to the stable.
I could feel eyes on me, the stable hands, the trainers, maybe even the other riders.
But no one said anything.
No one dared.
I wasn't approachable anymore.
Not today.
I wasn't the composed Aurora Aquino everyone admired.
I was a ghost in her skin.
After I brushed Celeste down, I leaned my forehead against her neck.
Her warmth seeped into me, soft and steady, grounding.
I closed my eyes and whispered, "You're the only one who never hurt me."
It sounded pathetic, but it was true.
Celeste didn't lie.
She didn't promise.
She didn't love.
She just stayed.
I wished humans could be that simple.
When I got back to my unit, the lights from Calix's door were still on.
I stared at it for a long time, my chest tightening at the sight of that familiar number.
I remembered every night he waited outside mine, every time he brought food after training, every soft word he said when I was too tired to keep pretending I was fine.
And now… it all felt like a script.
A perfectly acted lie.
My vision blurred again.
I forced my gaze away and unlocked my door, shutting it fast, as if I could lock out the memories too.
The air inside was cold and still.
I didn't bother turning on the lights.
I just sat on the floor, still in my riding gear, my boots muddy, my gloves still on.
I didn't cry.
Not this time.
There was nothing left to cry about.
Something inside me had gone quiet, a silence too deep to be sadness.
It was something worse.
Disbelief.
Because I had never trusted anyone the way I trusted him.
Not my parents.
Not my coaches.
Not a single soul in this world.
I let him see me when I was raw and scared, when I was human.
And he broke that like it meant nothing.
I used to laugh at girls who said heartbreak changes them.
I thought it was a weakness, a melodrama reserved for people who didn't know control.
But now I understand.
Because I could feel it, the way something inside me cracked, quiet but permanent.
The way every thought came with a voice that whispered:
You should've known better.
I didn't eat.
Didn't shower.
Didn't speak.
I just lay on the floor, staring at the ceiling, listening to the faint sound of rain outside.
The city lights bled through the window blinds, painting faint gold lines across my face.
And I thought, maybe this is what heartbreak really is.
Not screaming.
Not dramatic tears.
Just silence.
Heavy, aching silence.
The kind that lives in your ribs and never leaves.