The sky was too bright for the kind of day it was going to be.
The competition grounds were buzzing long before I arrived, reporters flashing cameras, sponsors adjusting banners, my parents already standing near the VIP section, perfect as always, smiles polished for the lenses.
I hated that kind of brightness.
It didn't feel like light. It felt like exposure.
Celeste was restless beside me, her silver mane glinting under the sun.
She could sense it, the tension, the weight pressing down on both of us.
She had always been better at reading me than anyone else ever could.
"Easy," I whispered, stroking her neck. "It's just another day."
But it wasn't.
This was the day.
The one my parents had been waiting for, the one the entire country apparently decided would prove my worth.
Win this one, Aurora. Don't embarrass the family again.
That's what they said last night before walking out of the room like I was a product about to be launched, not a daughter about to perform.
I had been competing since I was fifteen.
I had fallen before scrapes, bruises, even a small fracture once.
Pain wasn't new to me.
But this time, the pain wasn't in my body.
It was in the quiet ache sitting somewhere deep in my chest, the one I'd been trying to bury since that night at Calix's door.
I tightened my gloves, straightened my posture, and took a deep breath.
No weakness.
No fear.
No feeling.
Just control.
The announcer called my name.
The crowd erupted, cheers, flashes, clapping.
I didn't look up.
I mounted Celeste, adjusted the reins, and focused on the jumps ahead of us.
The obstacles gleamed like polished traps, bright, perfect, waiting for any mistake.
"Let's show them," I whispered.
Celeste snorted softly, as if agreeing.
And then, we moved.
The wind rushed past us, sharp and fast.
The thud of her hooves against the ground matched the pounding of my heart.
The rhythm felt good, almost freeing.
For a second, it was just us again.
No parents.
No expectations.
No Calix.
Just me and her.
We cleared the first jump.
Then the second.
Then the third.
Perfect landings.
I heard my trainer's distant shout, something about form, timing, balance, but it was all fading into background noise.
This was what I lived for the rush of control, the weightlessness midair, the brief moment of silence before the landing.
Everything was fine.
Until it wasn't.
The fifth jump was higher, too high for how tight my hands had become.
My body was trembling, exhaustion creeping in faster than I realized.
Celeste launched herself forward, graceful as ever, but my balance faltered by a fraction of a second.
The landing was off.
Her hoof hit the edge of the bar.
The pole clattered.
Then impact.
A sharp sound, a gasp from the crowd, and then the world spun.
I hit the ground hard.
The breath was knocked out of me.
For a second, I couldn't feel anything, just ringing in my ears and the faint sound of hooves retreating.
Celeste whinnied loudly, terrified.
I tried to move, but pain exploded up my leg like fire.
My chest heaved, air coming in short, panicked bursts.
Then the realization hit: I couldn't move my leg.
The medics rushed in.
Voices blurred together, questions, commands, concern.
I heard my name a few times, but it all felt far away.
I caught a glimpse of my parents from the stands.
They weren't running toward me.
They just stood there, composed, unreadable.
Of course they did.
—
The hospital lights were too white.
I woke up hours later, leg wrapped, IV dripping into my arm, throat dry.
The doctor's voice was calm, professional, saying words like fracture, recovery time, physical therapy.
I just stared at the ceiling.
Weeks, maybe months, he said.
No riding.
No training.
No competitions.
Everything I had built my life on was suddenly gone.
And before I could even process it, the door opened.
My parents walked in.
Not a knock.
Not a pause.
Just the echo of expensive shoes on tile and the smell of power and perfume.
My mother's voice came first.
Sharp.
"How could you let this happen, Aurora?"
I turned my head slowly, almost too tired to speak. "It was an accident."
"An accident?" my father repeated, his tone slicing through the air. "You had one job, to perform flawlessly. And instead, you humiliated us in front of the entire country."
I blinked at him, silent.
"Do you have any idea how much money we poured into your training?" my mother continued, each word tighter than the last. "You think people will still respect our family after this? After you fell like some amateur?"
Something inside me cracked, quietly, like glass under pressure.
I stared at them both, still calm, still distant. But my hands were trembling.
"You're weak," my father said finally. "You've always been weak. Maybe this was bound to happen. You were never strong enough to handle pressure."
Weak.
That word echoed like a bullet ricocheting inside my skull.
Weak.
The same word they used when I cried as a child.
The same word when I said I wanted to choose my own path.
The same word that defined my entire existence.
Something shifted inside me then.
A pulse.
A heat.
A rage that had nowhere left to go.
I sat up slowly despite the pain.
The movement startled them.
"For once," I said quietly, "you're wrong."
My mother frowned. "Excuse me?"
"You think weakness is falling," I said, voice shaking but steady. "But weakness is pretending you're perfect while everything inside you is breaking."
They went silent.
"I fell because I pushed myself past my limit. Because I didn't know when to stop trying to make you proud." My throat burned. "And even then, you don't ask if I'm okay. You don't care that I got hurt. You only care that people saw."
My father's expression hardened. "You're being emotional."
I let out a short, bitter laugh. "No. I'm being honest. For the first time in my life."
The room went still.
Even the steady beeping of the monitor seemed to slow down.
I looked at them, really looked at them, the perfect posture, the expensive clothes, the eyes that only saw their reflection in me.
"I am not your investment," I said, voice breaking now. "I'm not your trophy. I'm not your proof that you raised the perfect daughter. I am a person."
My mother's lips parted, but no words came out.
"And Celeste?" I added, tears stinging my eyes. "She's not a tool for your pride. She's not an animal to parade. She's my partner. She carried me through every fall you never cared to notice."
They said nothing.
For once, they didn't know what to say.
I wiped my tears with the back of my hand.
"This is the last time you ever call me weak," I whispered. "Because I am the only one in this family who has ever bled for something real."
Silence.
Thick.
Heavy.
Unforgiving.
My father's jaw clenched.
My mother's eyes glistened, not with guilt, but with something she didn't want to admit was shame.
They turned toward the door without another word.
The sound of it closing was the most freeing thing I'd heard in years.
When the room finally emptied, I let myself fall back against the pillows.
Every muscle in my body trembled.
My leg throbbed in pain.
My chest felt hollow and full all at once.
But I could breathe.
For the first time in years, I could actually breathe.
Through the haze of exhaustion, I heard the faint sound of footsteps outside my door.
A voice soft, careful.
Calix.
He didn't come in.
He didn't knock.
He just stood there, quiet.
And maybe that was enough.
Because I didn't need saving anymore.
Not from him.
Not from them.
Not from anyone.
I lay awake in the dark, hand resting on the edge of the hospital bed.
For years, I thought strength meant silence.
That love was a weakness.
That perfection was safety.
But I was wrong.
Strength was standing up, broken, bruised, terrified and saying no more.
Celeste had carried me through every fall, but this one…
This one, I carried myself.
And maybe that was enough too.