Crowds cheered. Cameras flashed.  

Bailey Dofen smiled for the reporters, every move rehearsed, every word precise.

“Bailey, how does it feel to be back on court?”  

“Grateful,” she said. “And loud.”

The laughter that followed felt polite, distant—like applause on delay.

She posed, waved, answered, smiled again.  

The choreography of composure was something she knew well.  

But somewhere inside, her pulse whispered a truth she didn’t say aloud:

She missed him.

Man Olid didn’t attend the press conference.  

He watched from his office instead, on a muted livestream, his hand unconsciously tracing the rim of his coffee cup.

She looked radiant. Controlled. Untouchable.  

It should’ve made him proud.  

It just made him ache.

When Kaiylin appeared behind him holding two coffees, he nearly jumped.

“Stalker behavior suits you,” she said.

“Professional concern,” he corrected.

“Uh-huh. So that’s what we’re calling longing now.”

He gave her a look. “Aren’t you supposed to be her friend?”

“I am,” she said, handing him one cup. “Which is why I’m here. To tell you to back off.”

“Excuse me?”

“She’s trying to find her rhythm again, Man. Don’t make her dance to yours.”

He blinked. “That’s oddly poetic.”

“I’m oddly serious.”

He sighed, leaning back. “You think I’m hurting her?”

“I think she’s scared that loving you means losing herself again.”

He fell quiet. “What if it doesn’t?”

“Then prove it without showing up.”

That night, Bailey’s phone lit up with a message.

**M: “Don’t look for me at your next match.”**  

**M: “I’ll still be watching.”**

She stared at it, something tightening in her chest.

She typed slowly.

**B: “You think distance will fix us?”**  

**M: “No. But maybe it’ll keep you from breaking yourself just to reach me.”**  

**B: “I don’t break easy.”**  

**M: “I know. That’s what scares me.”**

She didn’t reply again.

Days blurred into routines—training, interviews, pretending.  

She smiled when people said *welcome back.*  

She smiled when they mentioned *him.*  

And when she was finally alone, she stopped smiling at all.

Sometimes, she’d scroll through their old texts—half banter, half confessions.  

He had a way of turning ordinary sentences into warmth.  

She missed that warmth most at night.

A week later, her federation arranged a press dinner.  

Formal wear, photographers, polite questions.  

She was halfway through the evening when she saw him.

Man stood across the room, in a black suit, surrounded by sponsors and cameras.  

He wasn’t looking at her, but she could feel it—like gravity.

He noticed her before she moved.  

Their eyes met across the noise, and in that instant, the rest of the room went quiet.

Then someone called her name—too loudly.  

Flashbulbs popped.  

And just like that, the moment ended.

He found her later, by the balcony, away from the lights.

“You look…” he started, then stopped himself. “Like you’re surviving.”

She smiled faintly. “You were told not to show up.”

“I was told not to interfere.”

“Semantics again?”

“Old habit.”

They stood in silence for a while.  

The city hummed below them—traffic, laughter, life.

“I didn’t want to make things harder for you,” he said finally.

“You didn’t,” she said softly. “Life did.”

He looked at her. “And you’re handling it?”

“I’m pretending well.”

“Pretending’s a sport now?”

“It should be.”

He smiled. “You’re still the most impossible person I know.”

“And you’re still the one who won’t quit.”

“Guilty.”

She turned toward him then, eyes tired but bright. “Why are you here, really?”

“Because I realized something.”

“What?”

He took a slow breath. “Loving you doesn’t mean fixing you. It means staying still long enough for you to trust the ground again.”

She stared at him. “That’s… new.”

“I’m evolving,” he said, smiling. “Finally.”

She laughed quietly. “Took you long enough.”

He tilted his head. “Does that mean I’m forgiven?”

“For what?”

“For caring too loudly.”

She looked at him for a long moment, the city’s light glinting in her eyes.  

Then she whispered, “You never had to ask for that.”

When he reached out this time, he didn’t touch her.  

He just let his hand hover—close enough to feel the warmth between them.

“Someday,” he said softly, “you’ll stop running from the noise.”

“And then?”

“Then I’ll be here. Same place. Same noise.”

She smiled, half teasing, half breaking. “You’re not very good at metaphors.”

“Then I’ll just show you.”

He took a small step back, a gesture of patience rather than retreat.

She watched him go, her heart heavier and lighter at once.

For the first time, the distance between them didn’t feel like a wall.  

It felt like space—  

something that could hold love without crushing it.