The stadium lights were too bright,  

the air too sharp,  

and Bailey Dofen’s heartbeat far too loud.

It was her first official match since the diagnosis had leaked.  

The news cycle had been merciless—  

*“Fallen Star?” “Is Bailey Dofen Fit to Play?”*  

Every word felt like a bruise.

But she was here.  

And that had to mean something.

She bounced the shuttle once, twice.  

Her hearing held steady, though the edges flickered,  

like a weak radio signal fighting to stay alive.  

Across the court, her opponent waited—young, confident, the next generation coming for the crown.  

Bailey smiled. She remembered being that girl.  

Then she served.

The first rally was fast.  

Clean. Controlled.  

Then—  

a flicker.  

A brief drop in sound.

Her body reacted before her mind could.  

Step, swing, follow through—  

the shuttle landed just inside the line.  

The crowd roared.  

She didn’t hear it.  

But she saw it—mouths open, arms raised, motion alive.  

And for that moment, she felt whole.

In the stands, Man Olid gripped the railing so tightly his knuckles turned white.  

He hadn’t sat down once.  

Every serve, every lunge, his chest moved with her rhythm.  

Beside him, Rhett leaned forward. “She’s pushing too hard.”

“I know.”

“You should tell her to stop.”

Man shook his head. “No.”

Rhett frowned. “That’s not like you.”

“I used to think love meant stopping her,” he said quietly. “Now I think it means standing here while she goes.”

Rhett said nothing.  

There was nothing to say.  

Between rounds, Bailey sat by the court, towel pressed to her face.  

Her coach leaned down. “You don’t have to finish this.”

“I know,” she said.

“Then why—”

“Because I need to hear how it ends.”

The coach sighed. “At least drink water.”

She took it, smiled faintly.  

The sound in her ears buzzed again, faint static at the edges of her world.  

But she refused to flinch.

When she stepped back onto the court, something changed.  

The noise no longer scared her.  

Every thud of a shuttle, every cheer, every breath felt like music—imperfect, loud, real.  

She moved differently now—freer, looser.  

Her play wasn’t perfect, but it was alive.  

Then came match point.  

Her hand trembled slightly on the grip.  

The silence surged again, pressing in,  

turning the world into a blur of movement without sound.  

Her heart screamed louder than the crowd.  

She took a breath.  

And swung.  

The hit landed clean,  

shuttle spinning,  

dropping just inside the corner.  

Game.  

Set.  

Match.  

The crowd rose like a wave she couldn’t hear—  

but she could feel it, everywhere, in the way the court trembled beneath her feet.  

She smiled, not at the victory,  

but at the fact that she’d stayed.

After the ceremony, she walked outside into the rain.  

It wasn’t heavy—just soft enough to blur the city lights.  

Her hair stuck to her neck, her jacket unzipped, her body buzzing from exhaustion.

Man was waiting by the gate,  

soaked, still holding the same cup of coffee he’d brought two hours ago.  

“You’re insane,” she said softly.

“Historically, yes.”

“You watched the whole thing?”

“Front row of my heart.”

She groaned. “That was terrible.”

“I’ve been saving it.”

She laughed—tired, real, beautiful.  

“Why are you here?”

“I told you,” he said, “I don’t leave when it’s quiet.”

“It wasn’t quiet.”

“I know,” he said, stepping closer. “That’s the point.”

She looked up at him, rain dripping from her lashes.  

“I thought I’d be scared up there,” she whispered. “But it felt… okay.”

“It looked more than okay.”

“I lost one set.”

“You won everything else.”

She smirked. “You’re biased.”

“Hopelessly.”

The rain thickened, cold but soft.  

She took a shaky breath. “I couldn’t hear them cheer.”

“I know.”

“But I felt it.”

“I know.”

“You always know.”

He smiled. “I pay attention.”

She stepped closer, close enough to see the drops sliding down his face.  

“You could’ve told me not to play.”

“I wanted to.”

“Then why didn’t you?”

“Because you already knew what you needed.”

“And what’s that?”

“To prove to yourself that you’re still here.”

Her chest ached. “You think I did?”

He nodded. “I think you never left.”

For a second, she said nothing. Then, quietly:  

“I almost didn’t make it.”

He smiled softly. “But you did.”

“And you’re still here.”

“Always.”

The rain fell harder,  

and before either of them could think about it, she reached for his collar,  

pulled him in.  

The kiss wasn’t careful this time.  

It was desperate, soaked, a collision of everything they hadn’t said.  

His hand slid to the back of her neck, holding, not claiming.  

She leaned in, not for rescue, but for warmth.  

When they broke apart, she whispered against his mouth,  

“Next time, don’t catch me.”

He breathed out a shaky laugh. “Why not?”

“Because maybe I’m finally ready to land on my own.”

He smiled, forehead resting against hers.  

“I’ll still be here, just in case.”

“I know,” she said.  

And for the first time, she meant it without fear.  

The world around them blurred into rain and light.  

And in that quiet between thunder and breath—  

they both knew:  

love had finally found its rhythm.