The second morning at the track didn't feel the same as the first.
The fog was gone. The air was warmer. Louder, too — a few students had already started using the field, their voices drifting across the lanes. Nothing had changed on the surface, yet Hana felt it immediately.
Pressure.
She stood at the edge of the track, hands shoved into the sleeves of her hoodie, eyes locked on the red lanes like they might move without her permission.
Luca noticed.
"You don't have to do anything today," he said gently. "We can just sit again."
Hana shook her head. "No. I want to try."
She stepped onto the track.
One step. Then another.
Her pace was fine at first — cautious, measured. Luca walked beside her, matching her rhythm, making sure she never felt alone.
"You're doing good," he said.
She nodded but didn't answer.
Halfway through the lap, her breathing changed. It wasn't heavy — it was sharp, uneven, like she was bracing for something invisible.
Luca slowed. "Hana?"
She stopped walking.
"I can't," she said suddenly.
The words came out flat, like they'd been waiting behind her teeth for a long time.
Luca turned to her. "You don't have to—"
"No," she interrupted, louder than she meant to. A few students glanced their way. Hana flinched.
She looked down at her legs. "Every time I think I'm okay… I hear it again. The snap. The pain. Everyone staring."
Her fists clenched. "I don't want to be the girl who almost made it."
Luca swallowed.
He'd seen her fail before. In other loops. In ways she'd never remember.
But this time mattered more — because she would remember this feeling.
"You're not 'almost' anything," he said carefully. "You're still here."
She laughed bitterly. "You make it sound easy."
"It's not," Luca admitted. "But you don't have to decide everything today."
Hana finally looked at him — really looked at him.
"You don't get it," she said quietly. "Running was the only thing I was good at. When that was taken away, I didn't know who I was anymore."
Luca felt something twist in his chest.
He wanted to tell her he understood.
He wanted to tell her about the loops, the resets, the countless times he'd watched people break and never remember why.
But he couldn't.
So instead, he said the only honest thing he could.
"I don't know who I am either," he said. "Not completely. But I know who I want to be."
Hana searched his face. "And who's that?"
"Someone who doesn't run away when things get hard."
The words landed heavier than Luca intended.
Hana took a step back.
Her expression closed off — a wall snapping into place.
"You think I'm running away?"
Luca froze. "No, that's not—"
"That's exactly what you meant," she said, voice tight. "You don't know what it's like to lose something you loved and be told to just… move on."
She turned away from him. "I shouldn't have come."
"Hana—"
She started walking off the track, shoulders tense, every step sharp with frustration.
Luca didn't chase her.
He knew better.
Later that day, Aria sat alone in the library, sunlight spilling across the wooden table in front of her. Her notebook lay open, pages filled with half-finished thoughts.
She tapped her pen against the margin, frowning.
Something felt… off.
Not wrong. Not broken.
Just unfinished.
She glanced up as Luca entered, quiet as ever. He looked tired — not physically, but like his thoughts were weighing him down.
"Did something happen?" Aria asked.
Luca hesitated, then sat across from her. "I messed up."
Aria tilted her head. "With Hana?"
He nodded. "I pushed too hard."
Aria didn't judge him. She rarely did.
"She's afraid," Aria said. "Fear makes people defensive."
Luca sighed. "I know. I just… I want to help. But sometimes it feels like every choice I make is the wrong one."
Aria studied him — the way his fingers fidgeted, the crease between his brows.
"You care too much," she said softly.
He gave a weak smile. "Is that a bad thing?"
"No," she replied. "But it hurts more when things go wrong."
Her pen moved without her noticing, sketching faint lines along the page.
Luca glanced at the notebook. "You've been writing a lot lately."
Aria paused.
"I don't remember when I started," she admitted. "Sometimes I read what I wrote and it feels… familiar. Like I'm remembering something I was never taught."
Luca's heart skipped.
"Does it scare you?" he asked.
She shook her head. "Not really. It feels… important."
She closed the notebook gently. "You don't always have to fix things immediately, Luca. Some walls fall on their own."
He nodded slowly.
Across campus, Hana sat alone on the bleachers, staring at the track.
Her legs ached — not from running, but from holding herself back.
She hated how close she'd come to trusting him.
Hated how part of her wanted to go back tomorrow.
That night, Luca lay awake in his dorm bed, staring at the ceiling.
No loop triggered.
No reset came.
This was the version of the day that would stay.
And for the first time in a long while, Luca wondered if doing the right thing sometimes meant letting someone walk away — even when it hurt.
Some walls weren't meant to be broken.
Some were meant to be understood.