The next few days slipped by in a quiet rhythm that felt almost unreal.
I trained early in the morning with Celeste, the horse's hooves pounding the arena like a heartbeat I could count on.
I practiced each jump, each turn, until my arms ached and my legs trembled.
Focused.
Precise.
Perfect.
And yet, even in the midst of discipline, my mind wandered.
To him.
Calix.
He had stayed close since our return, though never intrusive.
Coffee in the morning, casual conversations during drives, quiet observation when I practiced.
Small gestures, a towel tossed over Celeste's back after training, a word of encouragement whispered just loud enough for me to hear, an unexpected hand brushing mine when I reached for a stirrup.
I hated how much I noticed these things.
Because I had never needed anyone before.
Because I didn't know how to allow someone into my life without it being about obligation or performance.
Because I didn't know what this feeling even was.
Was it love?
The word felt foreign in my mouth, heavy and strange.
I had never loved anyone before, not really.
I didn't know the warmth of someone's patience or the quiet ache when they weren't near.
And yet…
I found myself looking for him.
Waiting for his presence.
Smiling at the sound of his voice.
Feeling lighter when he was nearby.
It frightened me.
Because I didn't know how to navigate these uncharted waters.
And because admitting it, even to myself, meant giving up the control I had fought so hard to maintain.
One evening, after training, we returned to the condo together.
He leaned against the doorframe, hands in his pockets. "Long day?" he asked softly.
"Yes," I said. Simple, curt, not wanting to give him more.
"You did well," he added, gently, as though noticing the tension in my shoulders. "Celeste looks like she's improving too."
I gave him a small nod, avoiding his gaze.
He sighed, quietly, and stepped closer. "You know," he murmured, "I don't have to tell you every day, but I'm… proud of you."
Something in me quivered.
Not visibly, not audibly, but beneath the surface, a part of me that had been silent for years shifted.
I looked at him finally, seeing the sincerity in his eyes.
And I realized, maybe for the first time, that someone could care without expectation.
I swallowed hard. "I… I appreciate that," I said, voice steady, though my chest felt tight.
He smiled faintly. "You don't have to say it. I just want you to know."
I nodded again, and for a moment, neither of us spoke.
—
Later that night, I lay awake, staring at the ceiling.
My mind replayed every small gesture, every quiet word.
I asked myself, repeatedly, if this, this feeling was love.
And I didn't answer.
I only knew I wanted it to stay.
I wanted the mornings with him, the quiet drives, the way his presence made the world feel less heavy.
I wanted the safety of knowing he wouldn't leave, even if everything else demanded my perfection.
I wanted to let myself enjoy it without fear.
But the word love still felt too dangerous to speak.
So I didn't.
I closed my eyes and let the thought settle quietly in my chest:
Even if I don't know the name of this feeling… I want more of it.
—
I let myself picture him smiling at me over breakfast, leaning back casually in the kitchen, his eyes crinkling in that way that made everything seem lighter.
I wanted that.
More than I had ever wanted anything.
The thought made my chest tighten in a way that was both thrilling and terrifying.
Because I didn't know how to navigate these feelings.
I had never allowed anyone to matter like this before.
And yet, here I was, letting myself care.
I rose from the bed, bare feet touching the cold floor, and moved to the window.
The city pulsed beneath me, relentless and bright.
And somewhere in that pulse, in the quiet distance between buildings and sky, I felt the faintest hint of something I had never admitted to myself:
Hope.
Not for my parents' approval.
Not for accolades or perfection.
But for something small, fragile, entirely my own.
And it was his presence that made it possible.
Calix.
I smiled faintly, almost against my will.
He had not asked for it.
He had not demanded it.
And yet, he had given me something I didn't know I'd been missing all my life: the simple certainty that someone could care for me without expecting anything in return.
I didn't say the word.
I didn't have to.
Because tonight, in the stillness, in the quiet dark of my room, it was enough to feel it.
To let myself be soft, even for just a moment.
Even if I didn't know what it meant.
Even if I couldn't name it.
I wanted more of it.