“So you’re just going to leave?”
My voice wasn’t angry. Not loud. Just… tired. Tired in that way only heartbreak knows how to be. I stood there in front of her, watching the woman I hadn’t been able to stop loving—even when I tried—start building an exit.
She didn’t meet my eyes right away. When she finally did, they were glassy, unreadable. “I haven’t decided. But it’s not about you.”
I let out a quiet laugh, one of those bitter ones that comes from the place between acceptance and devastation.
“It always is. And it never is. That’s the problem.”
She blinked hard, shoulders straight like she was bracing herself for a hit. Then she deflected—sarcasm, her favorite armor.
“Congratulations, you just won Most Emotionally Intelligent Injured Athlete.”
But I didn’t laugh. I couldn’t. Not when it felt like something was slipping through my fingers again. Something I never got to hold long enough the first time.
We didn’t say much after that. Not when we moved into the therapy session. Not when her fingers adjusted the angle of my brace without any softness. Her voice was clipped. Detached. Like a stranger reading instructions from a manual.
“Bend your knee more. Control the movement.”
I nodded. Said nothing.
“Keep your core tight.”
Still silent.
We moved like machines—two bodies doing a job. No teasing. No eye contact. Just duty.
And I hated it. Not the pain. Not the drills. I’d take ten torn ligaments over feeling that wall between us again.
***
That night, I didn’t go back to my room.
I wandered the hallway, restless, and ended up in the old physio suite no one used anymore. Dim lighting. Cold floors. No mirrors. Just space.
I laid down on the mat, eyes on the ceiling, headphones in—but no music playing. Just silence. That kind of silence that follows you even when you leave the noise behind.
I replayed the conversation in my head, over and over. Every clipped word. Every almost-tear she wouldn’t let fall.
And I couldn’t stop thinking: maybe I’d broken something in her that rehab couldn’t fix.
***
The next day, I stretched early. No small talk. No one else around. I figured she wouldn’t come.
But then the door opened.
She didn’t speak. Didn’t bring a clipboard. Just walked in and sat beside me. Close, but not touching.
I kept my focus on the floor. Then, slowly, I leaned my head onto her shoulder. Her breath hitched, barely, but she didn’t pull away.
We stayed like that. Quiet. Fragile. Human.
No masks. No games.
For once, I didn’t have to say anything. And neither did she.
But the moment was shattered by a buzz from her phone. I felt her body go rigid beneath me.
She opened a message—Javier’s name lit up the screen. Her whole posture changed.
I caught the reflection in the window before I saw the phone.
A screenshot.
A text thread between me and my manager.
I’d written that I wanted Riley to stay on as my PT. That the injury wasn’t as bad as the media claimed. That maybe I was faking a little—just to stay close to her.
The caption under it: “And this is who you’re defending?”
My stomach dropped. I straightened slowly, the warmth of her shoulder already gone.