BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
The sound drilled into Stella's head.
Her eyes opened, then wanted to shut again. Her whole head hurt. She swallowed once and wished she hadn't.
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
The phone wasn't by her pillow. It had ended up somewhere to her right. She remembered waking up drenched and kicking the blanket off. Now the room was cold enough to raise goosebumps.
She lay on the mattress with the blanket bunched off to the side. Papers were scattered around her, flyers she still hadn't given away. Borrowed books were stacked near the wall—some open, some face-down. She barely remembered any of their contents right now.
She reached out.
Pain shot through her arm. She stretched farther, fingers brushing nothing.
She propped herself up on one forearm and dragged herself forward. Her palm hit the phone screen hard.
The alarm cut off.
Silence.
She stayed there for a second, half on the mattress and half off, one arm hanging over the dull gray cement floor. Her palm stung.
She was racing today.
"Ack—"
The sound scraped out of her throat. She planted both forearms on the mattress and pushed herself up. Her body shook the whole time. She got her knees under her and stopped there, breathing through her nose.
Up. If she stayed down, she'd lose time.
She stood and regretted it immediately.
She limped toward the bathroom.
The room tilted for the first few steps. Morning light pushed through the thin curtain and made her squint. Her shoulder brushed the wall.
Step. Step. Step.
By the fourth step, she was steadier.
Breathe in. Breathe out.
The pain at the back of her neck was easing. It had been bad when she woke up. Tight and mean. It still hurt, just less.
She grabbed the doorknob and leaned her weight into it.
The bathroom door opened.
Her breathing sounded loud in here.
She looked at the mirror.
Dark circles. Pale skin. Hair sticking out everywhere, some strands pushed down, others fraying loose. Her shirt and shorts were wrinkled too.
Her ears drooped.
She picked up the toothbrush. Her hand shook. She grabbed the toothpaste, squeezed, and winced when pain flared through her fingers.
She brushed.
Up.
Down.
Left.
Right.
She kept staring at herself. The longer she looked, the worse she seemed. She looked half-dead already.
Then the room spun.
Stella lurched forward over the sink and grabbed the rim hard. The edge bit into her palms.
Wait. Don't fall. Don't throw up.
She spat foam into the sink and coughed after. Saliva ran from the corner of her mouth. She stayed bent there, breathing shallow. The bathroom was quiet except for that.
A dark stain sat in the sink.
She stared at it without really comprehending it.
After a few seconds, the spinning eased.
She lifted her head slowly and turned on the tap. Cold water ran over her fingers. She wiped her mouth, then splashed water over her face.
Her shirt came off next.
She grabbed the hem and pulled. Her shoulders ached at once. She had to tug in stages. It got stuck at her neck, then one arm. For a second she stood there caught in it. Then she yanked it free and let it drop.
The shower curtain was damp as always.
She stepped in and braced both palms on the wall. Then she turned the knob.
Cold water hit.
Her body jerked.
Then it slowly warmed.
She stood there under it with her head down. Water ran over her neck, her back, her chest. It washed sweat off her skin. It eased some of the tightness out of her shoulders.
She looked at the drain.
Water circled around her feet. Dirt and loose strands of hair swirled with it.
Disgusting.
She stared at it for a bit, then scraped the mess loose with her toe so the water could pull through.
Her fingers had started to wrinkle.
She didn't know how long she'd been standing there.
Too long.
She could stay there all morning if she let herself. Just stand under the water and not think.
No.
She shut it off.
She grabbed the big towel and dried herself fast, rough with every motion. Arms. Stomach. Legs. Then her hair. No point being careful. It would flatten later.
She threw the towel over the curtain rod. It landed crooked.
When she stepped back into the room, cold air hit her wet skin.
Stella crouched and picked up the black shirt and skirt from the floor. Wrinkled. It didn't matter. The gym clothes in her bag mattered.
She looked at the corner.
Backpack.
She grabbed it and pulled it onto her shoulders.
When she opened the door, sunlight hit her eyes hard enough to make them water. She raised an arm to block it.
The hallway smelled of cigarette smoke and old concrete.
Her nose wrinkled.
She started down the stairs one step at a time, one hand near the rail.
Did she forget anything?
Phone. Bag. Papers. Clothes.
No.
Nothing worth turning back for.
She had to race.
~**~
Growwwwl.
Stella's stomach twisted.
Right. That's what she forgot.
She sat in the plastic chair with the brown envelope on her lap. Her head tipped sideways for a moment before she forced it upright.
The waiting room hummed.
An electric fan buzzed overhead. The metal cage rattled every few rotations. Something inside clicked softly each time the blades turned.
Click.
Whirr.
Click.
The air smelled faintly of floor cleaner and old paper.
Stella watched the floor.
Her stomach growled again.
She pressed a fist into it.
"Not now."
The envelope shifted when she tightened her grip. The edges were bent. One corner had split where she'd folded it too many times.
Inside were the same papers.
Entry form. Medical clearance. School reference.
The same stack she'd brought before.
Across the room someone coughed.
A chair creaked.
The fan clicked again.
"…Number thirteen."
Stella blinked once.
Outside lane again.
She stood up.
The chair legs scraped quietly against the tile. She smoothed the envelope with one hand and walked to the counter.
The same lady was there.
Clipboard. Pen. Same flat expression.
Stella slid the envelope forward.
The woman opened it.
The papers came out with soft rustling sounds. Several were creased. One had a corner folded down where Stella had crammed it into her bag the night before.
The woman glanced at the wrinkles.
A small sideways look.
She didn't say anything.
She flipped through the stack once. Didn't even read them properly.
"Alright," she said.
She pushed the papers back.
"All done. Locker room's down the hall."
Stella had already turned before the sentence finished.
The locker room lights were bright enough to sting.
Everything looked too blue.
Blue lockers. Blue benches. White tile reflecting the lights until the whole room felt washed out.
The smell hit next. Disinfectant. Mop water. Something sharp and chemical underneath.
Umas moved around the room. Bags opening. Shoes thudding against tile. Voices overlapping in quick bursts.
Stella kept to the edge.
Her corner was still empty.
She dropped her backpack beside the bench and unzipped it.
Tape first.
She wrapped her ankle slowly, pulling the strip around once, twice—
It barely stuck.
The tape had lost most of its adhesive.
She pressed it harder.
It peeled up immediately.
"…Tch."
She ripped the loose mess off and shoved it back into the bag.
No time.
Shoes next.
Her hand dug through the bottom of the backpack until she pulled them out.
They used to be white.
Now the soles were gray.
Stains had soaked into the fabric where dirt never came out no matter how much she scrubbed. The foam along the side had started to crease through the middle.
They still fit.
That was enough.
Growl.
Her stomach twisted again.
Stella pressed a fist into it.
"Shut up."
She shoved her feet into the shoes and pulled the laces tight.
Gym shirt next. Shorts after.
She stuffed her regular clothes into the bag without folding them.
A voice echoed through the hallway speakers.
"Racers, please proceed to the track."
The other runners were already leaving.
Lockers slammed.
Footsteps faded.
Stella tied the final knot on her shoe and stood up.
Her legs felt hollow.
She walked out.
The starting gate stood ahead of them.
Tall. Heavy. Metal bars thick enough to hold anything inside.
Each stall had a number painted above it.
Stella stepped into hers.
Metal surrounded her on both sides. Other racers shifted in their lanes. She could hear their breathing. Shoes scuffing dirt.
Stella lowered her gaze.
Don't look up.
The track stretched ahead in a long brown strip.
Starting lights above.
Ground under her feet.
Nothing else mattered.
The announcer's voice boomed somewhere far away.
Crowd noise rolled over the stadium with cheers and excited calls.
None of it meant anything.
"…On your marks."
Stella crouched.
Her eyes locked onto the metal bar in front of her.
Breath in.
Every muscle tightened.
Focus.
Her breathing felt hot in her chest.
The colors around her dulled.
Grass faded.
Sky faded.
Only movement mattered.
Just the bar. Just the ground.
Click.
The bar lifted.
Stella saw it in a blink.
KICK.
She exploded forward.
Her shoulder brushed the edge of the gate as it opened. Dirt burst under her first step.
"—And we're off! Early burst from lane thirteen!"
Hold back.
Save energy.
Push at the end.
No.
That wouldn't work.
Not today.
She pushed harder.
There was no one in front of her.
Her foot slammed down again.
Dirt scattered.
Her legs pumped faster.
Muscles tightened and released in sharp rhythm.
Her breath burned.
"Hah—"
"Hah—"
She was ahead.
That was enough.
Something tugged at her mouth.
A smile.
She was smiling.
Push.
The ground moved faster beneath her feet. The grass beside the track flashed past. Every step felt sharp and narrow. One mistake would send her sliding.
She pushed anyway.
"T-Things are taking a surprising turn! Lane thirteen—Stella Umbra—takes the lead!"
Shut up.
Faster.
She leaned lower as the first turn approached.
Prepare.
Slow.
Angle out.
Then cut in.
She shifted her position—
Movement appeared beside her.
A silhouette entering her space.
Her smile vanished.
Her teeth clenched.
No.
Not yours.
She cut inward immediately.
Shortest line.
The shadow fell behind.
Gone.
Her world narrowed again.
Only her.
Only the path.
Run.
Her smile came back.
Something warm slid down from her nose.
Over her lip.
She barely noticed.
Straightaway.
Push again.
Footsteps surged closer.
She had to stay ahead.
Her vision narrowed.
The edges blurred.
Crowd fading.
Only the strip of ground in front of her remained.
Step.
Kick.
Twist the heel. Lower the torso.
She needed more speed.
If something broke, fine. Just win.
The liquid from her nose dripped over her mouth now.
Down her chin.
"Something's wrong with lane thirteen—!"
"—Oh my"
"someone should check up on—"
Voices tangled together in noise.
She ignored them.
Second turn.
No wide line.
Shortest path.
She hugged the rail.
Controlled the steps.
Brake—
Turn—
Push.
Still in front.
The darkness behind her surged closer.
Black tendrils creeping to catch up.
Ahead—
A bright line.
The finish.
Half a straight left.
That was all.
She drove her foot down for the final push.
SNAG—
Her step caught on a black tendrils.
Wrapping her ankle.
What—
Her left foot felt wrong.
Not twisted or cramped. Just wrong.
She forced it forward anyway.
The tendrils loosened as she shook free.
Pain exploded up her leg.
Her foot hit the ground again—
It didn't feel right anymore.
Her foot was covered in a back mass.
Panic flashed through her chest.
Her eyes widened.
She kept running.
Another step.
Pain stabbed deeper.
Numbness crawled up her leg.
Foot.
Ankle.
Calf.
Every step worse.
Her breath broke.
Her hand came up to wipe the liquid from her mouth.
Her fingers came away wet.
Black.
For half a second her mind refused it.
Mud, she thought.
Then she smelled iron.
Her stomach dropped.
No.
No no—
Just reach the line.
Please.
Her body lurched.
Her legs failed.
She hit the ground hard.
The track tilted sideways.
The black liquid pooled beneath her face.
Her world narrowed to pain.
It hurt.
It hurt so much.
Someone help.
Please—
Everything went dark.
~**~
Stella woke to an unfamiliar white ceiling. For several seconds she stayed still on the bed, unmoving, just staring at it. The ceiling was a pastel white with the rough texture of those paint canvases that caught her eye in the art store windows in her commute. The fluorescent lights were the generic ones—the same ones in her school and in the racing registration office—its light diffused and spread across the already white room.
Yet it felt the same. The same as lying on her bedroom mattress, the same as waiting at the desk to be called in for the audition, the same as the silent library visits way past regular hours. Why did this unfamiliar silence feel so familiar?
Her eyes landed on the vent near the top right of the room. That must be the one shifting the air around in here.
Her head turned to the left.
A white bed was placed just beside hers. This one was empty and cleaned up. The sheets were pulled tight to the sides, leaving no wrinkles, and the pillow was fluffed with a thin white blanket lying on top. The frame was made of rounded metal that shined faintly, taller at the head side than the foot side. It was very similar to the beds in her school's nurse's room, though those were more rusted and dented. This one was actually pristine and looked much better.
Her head turned to the right.
All that greeted her was a bare white wall. But after lowering her eyes and looking at what was close to her, she noticed a small drawer stool pushed flush against the wall beside her bed. Her backpack sat on top of it, though it looked like it was resting on some other papers that didn't seem to be hers. At least they were too clean and crisp to be any of the old documents she kept in that worn envelope.
Slowly, the memory of her falling began to form again, and she could finally piece together why she was lying here in the first place.
She inhaled deeply, making her chest expand, and something pulled tight against it. She shifted the blanket off and checked under her hospital shirt. Her chest had been fully bandaged and wrapped. They must have done it while she was unconscious—she didn't remember anything or feel it at all. The thought made her uncomfortable, though she shook it off after a moment.
Gauze was wrapped around each of her arms, layering over itself to the point where she could barely feel them properly. Her knee had cotton pads—big and small ones placed in different areas—all taped and wrapped down. Her left leg felt heavy and stiff. She couldn't turn it or move it without feeling something holding it back. She tried shifting it until she realized there was a green splint holding it firmly in place, stopping any movement she attempted.
She caught a sound.
Beeping.
But it wasn't coming from anywhere in her room. She looked around, but none of the machines there seemed to be on aside from the lights and the AC. It was probably in another room—maybe the one beside hers or somewhere down the hall.
She leaned slightly toward the sound without thinking much about it. She had nothing else to do but sit there, and forming any heavier thoughts made her head strain.
Then came a sharper noise.
Chik. Clink.
Her head flicked from listening with her ear to staring directly at the door.
The wooden door had old paint chipping off, exposing the dark brown wood underneath. It moved with a slow push and a soft creak.
A man stepped inside wearing a white uniform top and pale blue pants. A face mask covered the lower half of his face, though the tiredness in his eyes showed clearly enough. In one hand he carried a clipboard thick with papers, the top corners bent and layered. His shoes tapped softly against the smooth pale-blue floor as he came closer.
"Good evening, Ms. Umbra," he said. His voice was calm, even through the mask. "How are you feeling?"
The question reached her ears, her mind taking a second to process it.
Then something clicked hard into place.
The race.
Her body jerked upright before the rest of her could catch up. The motion dragged at the bandages around her ribs and side, pulling tight enough to make her suck in a breath.
"The race!" she blurted out. "What happened to the race?"
The man raised one hand immediately, palm out as he put his clipboard aside.
"Please, please—easy," he said, stepping forward. "The race is already over, Ms. Umbra. Please slow down. Take a breath first."
Stella froze there, half-propped up, her chest moving too fast.
Over?
The word opened something in her mind and sent everything scrambling.
She remembered the track. The final stretch. The finish line ahead of her, bright and fixed in the distance. The feeling of pushing harder because there had been nothing else to do except keep going. After that, the memory broke apart. There was motion, then darkness, then nothing.
Her breathing stayed quick before she forced it down, following what he had said only because she needed to hear the answer properly.
In through the nose.
Out through the mouth.
The room steadied a little. The ache in her ribs settled back.
When she spoke, her voice had gone smaller.
"…Did I finish first?"
The doctor blinked. It was brief, but she caught it. Even with the mask hiding his mouth, the surprise showed plainly in the way his eyes widened before he checked it.
"Miss," he began, gentler now, "I think you should focus on your recovery first—"
"Did I finish in the top three?"
The question cut over him.
He paused. The clipboard dipped lower in his hand. Then he looked down at it for a second, like he was considering whether there was a better way to say it. In the end, he set it down on the stool beside her backpack, the papers making a soft slap against the wood.
When he looked back at her, his expression had changed to something softer.
"Ms. Stella," he said, and this time he took the words one at a time, "I'm sorry, but you did not finish the race."
No. That was impossible.
He continued before she could say anything.
"The officials had to pull you off the track. You collapsed in the middle of the field and rolled several times before staff could safely reach you."
Her fingers tightened against the blanket without her noticing. The fabric bunched under her hand.
"You were fortunate," he went on. "Most of what you sustained were bruises, scrapes, and shallow cuts. Your left ankle is sprained, which is why it's splinted now. Nothing appears broken. If the fall had gone differently, you could have ended up with a fracture or a torn ligament."
Fortunate.
He reached out then and placed a hand on her shoulder, light and professional, clearly meant to reassure her. Stella didn't flinch from him exactly, but something in her stomach tightened anyway. She already knew there was still one part left to say.
His voice dropped slightly.
"You were disqualified."
He let the words sit.
"DNF. Did not finish."
His hand gave her shoulder the smallest squeeze.
~**~
This can't be real.
Stella's fingers tightened around the papers.
The fold deepened under her grip, the corner crumpling the longer her fingers squeezed.
The bus lurched forward.
Her body tipped sideways a few inches with the motion, shoulder bumping lightly against the plastic window. Outside, the street slid past in gray streaks of pavement and concrete walls. People moved along the sidewalks without looking at the bus, heads down, bags swinging, umbrellas folded under their arms.
Her stop was here.
The bus wheezed as it slowed.
Stella blinked and looked down at the paper again.
The words were still there.
The bus doors hissed open.
"Next stop," the driver called flatly.
She didn't move at first.
The paper rustled faintly between her hands.
Someone behind her cleared their throat.
Right.
She grabbed the crutches leaning against the seat beside her. The rubber ends squeaked faintly as she dragged them upright. The hospital had given them to her before discharge.
Apparently her guardian had already paid the hospital fees.
The thought landed somewhere deep in her stomach.
Another twist of pain.
Not the ankle this time.
She pushed herself upright.
The bus waited.
A couple of passengers watched quietly as she shuffled toward the door. The crutches hit the floor with hollow clicks. Step. Lift. Click.
The bus steps looked taller than she remembered.
She lowered one crutch carefully.
Her splinted leg followed stiffly behind.
The pavement outside felt harder than the bus floor. Colder too. The air smelled like exhaust and damp concrete.
The doors shut behind her with a heavy thump.
The bus pulled away.
Stella stood there for a second with the paper still in her hand.
Then she looked up.
The apartment building waited across the narrow street.
It looked exactly the same as it always had.
Gray walls with paint peeling at the edges. Rust creeping along the balcony rails. Laundry hanging from a few windows above. Someone's radio played faintly somewhere inside the building, muffled through concrete.
Nothing had changed.
Her crutches clicked forward.
The short walk to the entrance took longer than it should have. Every step pulled lightly at the splint wrapped around her leg. The rubber tips scraped against the ground whenever she misjudged the distance.
By the time she reached the entrance, her arms already ached.
The stairs waited.
They weren't tall stairs.
She'd run up them before.
Usually two at a time even.
Stella lifted one crutch onto the first step.
Then the other.
Her good leg followed.
The splinted one dragged up last.
Pause.
Another step.
Pause again.
It took minutes to climb what used to take seconds. Each step required the same careful sequence—crutch, crutch, good leg, drag the splinted one. Her shoulders burned halfway up. Sweat gathered under the collar of her shirt despite the cool air inside the stairwell.
The concrete walls echoed softly with every tap of rubber and metal.
Click.
Step.
Click.
Step.
By the time she reached her floor, her breathing had turned shallow.
She stood there for a second.
Then shuffled down the short hallway.
Her door waited at the end.
The key scraped once before it turned.
The room inside smelled the same as when she left it.
Paper. Dust. Cheap detergent.
The fan was still running.
Its blades wobbled slightly every few rotations.
The same clock ticked on the wall.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
She lowered herself slowly into the chair.
The paper slid from her hand.
It unfolded across the crooked table.
----
NOTICE PROBATION
URA RACE OPERATIONS DIVISION
OFFICIAL NOTICE OF DISQUALIFICATION & ONE-YEAR PROBATION
Document No.: URA-ROD--1299064
Date Issued: 03/16/2002
To: Stella Umbra
URA Registration ID: 420025
Contact: XXXXXXXXX
Address on File: Lot 41 Abergine street, Tokyo
Subject: Disqualification (DNF) - Medical Non-Compliance / Eligibility Hold (12 Months)
Ms. Umbra,
This letter serves as formal notice that you have been recorded as DNF (Did Not Finish) in the Maiden Race held on March 3, 2002 at Higashisuminoe District Racecourse under entry number Lane 13. During the event, URA staff and on-site medical personnel observed and documented indicators of acute physical distress requiring intervention. As a result, your entry has been flagged for medical non-compliance under URA Safety & Eligibility Standards.
1. Disqualification
Your result for the above event is confirmed as DNF, and no placement or time will be recognized for official records.
2. One-Year Probation / Eligibility Hold
Effective immediately, your URA racing eligibility is placed on probation status for a period of twelve 12 months. During this period, you are prohibited from registering for, entering, or participating in any URA-sanctioned race events, including (but not limited to) maiden races, trial races, qualifiers, and exhibition races. Probation Period: March 3, 2002 to March 3, 2003
3. Basis for Action
This action has been issued due to one or more of the following:
Failure to meet current URA medical clearance requirements on race day
Non-alignment between filed medical documentation and required URA verification standards
Safety risk to the participant and other racers due to impaired condition during competition
4. Requirements for Reinstatement (After Probation)
Reinstatement will not be considered until the probation period has concluded and the following have been completed:
Submission of an updated URA Medical Clearance Form (issued within the required time window prior to registration)
Completion of a URA Fitness & Safety Assessment at an accredited facility
Review and approval by the URA Eligibility Board
5. Appeal Option
You may file a written appeal within seven (7) calendar days of receiving this notice. Appeals must include supporting documentation and will be reviewed at URA's discretion. Submitting an appeal does not automatically lift the eligibility hold.
Appeals may be submitted to:
URA Race Operations Division – Eligibility Desk
Email: [email protected]
Please understand that these measures exist to protect the safety of participants, staff, and the integrity of URA-sanctioned competition.
Sincerely,
URA Race Operations Division
Eligibility & Compliance Unit
(Signature)
Sato Iyuuchi / Administration Officer
----
Flyers were still scattered across the floor.
The books were still stacked near the wall.
The fan still spun unevenly.
And that clock—
still ticking.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
This was fine.
She could practice more.
She could do drills.
What would it take, a month, two months maybe even faster since the books said umas healed faster anyway so that part didn't matter.
And then once she was fine she could start again slowly jogging first then sprint drills and she could do it at night too when nobody was watching and then maybe she could get a singing job or something like that part time or a dance thing maybe not dance right now because the leg but later later that could work because idols ran all the time anyway and if she got good enough she could build fans first before her official races and that would actually be better because then people would already know her name.
And if she had fans she could probably sell tickets easier and then once she had money she could pay back the hospital fees that her relative covered and then she wouldn't owe anyone anything anymore and after that she could buy proper training equipment maybe even those resistance sleds the books talked about or a treadmill with incline settings or heart monitors or maybe even get into a proper training program except those were expensive so maybe not but she could self train because she had always self trained anyway and the books were enough if she read more carefully this time and the year wasn't even that long when you thought about it because people wasted a year all the time and she could spend that year getting stronger faster smarter more efficient learning everything so when the probation ended she'd come back better than everyone else and then nobody would even remember this race and it wasn't like she was missing anything important anyway not really not the races not the classmates not the stares not the whispers because she didn't care about those things she never cared about them she kept to herself because she liked it that way because focusing was easier that way because being alone meant no distractions and no expectations and no one to disappoint so really this was just another step forward and steps forward were good steps forward meant progress and progress meant improvement and improvement meant success and success meant everything was still possible so there was nothing wrong with this nothing wrong at all everything made sense everything was under control everything was still moving forward and even if the probation lasted a full year that still meant the clock was already ticking down right now every second that passed was one less second left on it and people waited longer than that all the time athletes got injured and came back stronger and sometimes they were gone for years and still returned and one year was barely anything compared to that and she wasn't even starting from zero because she already had the training she had already been studying the books she already knew about pacing and stride length and breathing control and heart rate zones and recovery intervals and if she spent this year applying all of that properly then technically she would come back stronger than if she had just kept racing normally and maybe this was actually better because if she had kept racing right away she might have rushed things or made mistakes or burned out but now she had time time to perfect everything time to train quietly time to build herself up without anyone interfering and when the probation ended she could show up again like nothing had happened except she would be faster and stronger and smarter than before and the people who saw her collapse wouldn't matter because people forgot things quickly they always did especially if something better came along to replace it and races happened all the time there were hundreds of runners and hundreds of results every season and one DNF wasn't going to stay in anyone's mind for long not if she came back and won later because winning erased things winning rewrote things winning made people forget the ugly parts before it and she just had to reach that point again and reaching it only required time and effort and effort was something she already had because she had always worked harder than everyone else anyway and if she worked even harder now then that gap would only get bigger and when she returned they would see it they would see how much stronger she had gotten during the year they thought she was gone and then they would realize that the probation hadn't stopped her at all it had only slowed her down a little and slowing down wasn't the same as stopping and stopping wasn't something she was going to do not when she had already come this far not when she had already pushed through everything else not when she had already spent nights studying and mornings running and afternoons handing out flyers and evenings reading books in the library while everyone else relaxed because she had already given too much to turn back now and the year wasn't a wall it was just a stretch of road she had to cross and roads were meant for running and if she ran through it like everything else then the other side would still be there waiting for her just like it always had been because the finish line hadn't disappeared it was only farther away now and distance was something she understood distance was something she could handle because running was nothing but distance broken into steps and steps were easy steps were simple you just had to keep moving forward one after the other and eventually you would get there eventually you always got there as long as you didn't stop and she wasn't stopping she couldn't stop she wouldn't stop because stopping meant admitting something was over and nothing was over nothing was over at all everything was still there everything was still possible everything was still moving forward. and she had to keep moving. She had to keep moving. SHE HAD TO KEEP MOVING. SHE HAD TO KEEP MOVING. SHE HAD TO—
"AHHHHHHHHHHHH—!"
Crash.
The table jumped when both her hands slammed into it.
BANG.
BANG.
BANG.
"AHHHHH—!"
Her fingers snatched the paper off the table.
Rip.
Again.
Rip.
Again—
RIP.
She hurled the shredded pieces across the room. White scraps spun through the air and fluttered down over the floor.
Her breathing turned ragged.
She grabbed the side of the table.
"—HNNGH!"
She lifted it.
The leg scraped once across the concrete—
then she threw it.
CRASH.
It hit the floor hard enough for splinters to jump loose from the edge.
Stella kicked it away with her good foot.
The force threw her off balance.
Her crutches slipped.
She crashed down with them.
Flyers crumpled under her.
She grabbed a fistful and flung them away.
Another handful.
Then another.
Paper scattered across the room like trash caught in wind.
She pushed herself up.
One foot.
Then the splinted leg.
Her hands shook.
Her ankle screamed.
She barely felt any of it.
The books were stacked near the wall.
She limped to them and kicked the pile apart.
Books burst across the floor.
One slammed into the wall.
Another struck the bathroom door with a hard wooden clack.
Tick.
Tick.
Tick.
Her head snapped toward the clock.
Her hand shot down to one of the fallen books.
She grabbed it with both hands.
Lifted it over her head—
and threw it.
The book smashed into the clock face.
Glass shattered.
The clock dropped from the wall and hit the floor with a crack.
Silence—
then the loose pieces skittered.
Stella crouched low, breathing through her teeth.
Her hands grabbed the mattress on the floor.
She dragged it up.
Then flung it sideways.
It hit the kitchen corner hard.
The lone pot toppled and clattered across the concrete.
Clang—
clang—
clang.
Her hand flew to her head.
She gripped her hair.
Hard.
Then scratched.
Her nails raked over her scalp.
Again.
Harder.
Until her skin stung.
"Haah—haa—AAAH—!"
She turned toward the door.
Lunged.
Grabbed the handle.
Pulled.
She yanked harder.
The door didn't move.
"What—"
She kicked it.
BANG.
Pain shot up her splinted leg.
She kicked it again.
BANG.
Again—
BANG.
Again.
BANG.
Each hit louder.
Each hit sloppier.
Each time the splint took the blow.
Cracks spread through it.
A piece snapped loose.
Then another.
She staggered back, bent down, and tore at it with both hands.
The straps peeled.
The cracked shell came away in jagged pieces.
Her injured foot dropped free.
She didn't stop.
With one last shove, she threw her weight at the door.
The door flew open.
She stumbled out and hit the floor hard in the hallway.
She stayed there, breath tearing through her chest.
Then she pushed herself up.
Both feet under her.
Barely steady.
Bandages loosening.
Hands shaking.
Still moving.
~**~
Her foot pushed against the pavement.
Her breath fogged up in cold air.
Warm blood slid down her ankle as she forced the next step forward.
---
Trees and grass rushed past the window as Stella leaned against it. She sat on the grey cushions of the car, stiff and quiet. It was the first time she had ridden in one this clean. Cold air flowed from the vents above her. The AC vents were pointed down at her, and the cool air washed over her skin. It felt much better than the heavy heat of the countryside outside.
But even then, the empty feeling stayed. The one driving was apparently her distant relative. She didn't understand most of what had been said earlier in the big room. The words had been long and tangled, and the person with the gavel spoke too fast. But she understood the important part. She wouldn't be able to meet her parents again. And she would be living with this person instead.
He was family, but she had never met him before. Even now, they barely talked. He only focused on the road as he drove her toward Tokyo—the city her parents used to talk about. The one with bright lights that shone even at night. She pulled her head away from the window and looked down at the things beside her. There wasn't much. A small bag with a few essentials. Her old blanket folded inside. Her tablet resting on top. That was all she had taken. Eventually the car slowed and stopped. They were at the airport.
When they arrived in Tokyo and settled into his apartment, life became quiet. He worked. She went to school. They rarely ate at the same time. But he had shown her how to heat the meals he prepared in advance. He pointed to the microwave and explained which buttons to press.
He bought her toys sometimes. School supplies too. On birthdays he would leave something wrapped on the table before going to work. He even attended some school events when he could. But they never really talked. The conversations were always short. Eventually it rubbed off on her. She didn't know how to talk to other people either. Most days she stayed quiet in class, quiet at home, quiet everywhere.
And then one day his work required him to go overseas. She didn't mind. It was obvious that her presence had been difficult for him. They lived frugally, and he worked long hours. Before leaving, he told her he would rent a small apartment closer to her school so she could walk there easily. He also said she would receive a monthly allowance. If she ever needed more, she just had to ask. She never asked. She didn't want to. In her mind, she was just an outsider living off his kindness.
---
A stray cat jumped out from the shadows as Stella ran past.
It hissed and bolted under a parked car. A dog somewhere down the street started barking, startled awake.
Her shoulder clipped something metal.
CLANG.
A trash bin tipped sideways and rattled across the pavement.
Stella staggered forward. Her foot slipped and she caught herself before she could fall.
The movement tore at the bandages wrapped around her ankle and side. Something warm began to seep through the cloth.
Dark red spread slowly across the white.
---
She pulled the blanket tighter around herself and huddled deeper into the corner of her room. Her knees were tucked up to her chest beneath the fabric. The tablet sat in her hands, and she pressed the longer side button again and again until the volume rose high enough to drown out the noise outside.
She didn't want to hear the commotion anymore.
Not the angry yelling.
Not the sharp banging.
Not the things being thrown.
She just wanted out of it.
Out of the house. Out of the room. Out of all of it.
If she couldn't leave for real, then she would stay inside the screen instead.
Her fingers tapped at the tablet.
Weetube.
Search.
Uma concerts.
This time she wanted to watch Winx. She was one of the—
CRASH.
Stella's whole body jerked.
Her ears dropped flat.
The blanket tightened around her as she pulled it closer. A small sound slipped out of her throat, half-whine and half-wail, before she shoved the tablet closer to her face.
The screen lit her eyes blue-white in the dim room.
Winx was there.
Short blonde bob. Pink and blue accessories glittering beneath the stage lights. She looked like a fairy. She smiled like one too, bright and carefree.
She sang with her whole chest.
The crowd below waved glow sticks in colors that blurred together. Pink. Blue. White. Their voices rose and fell around the music.
Stella stared at the screen.
Then, slowly, she tried copying Winx's smile.
Her mouth pulled upward.
The shape came out wrong.
It trembled.
Her eyes didn't match it at all.
She could see herself reflected faintly in the screen, layered over the idol's bright face.
The song ended.
The video faded to black.
Her own face stayed there for a moment in the reflection before the next thumbnail appeared.
Watching the singing and racing of the umas always made her feel better. It made something in her chest loosen a little. It made the nights quieter, even when they weren't. It made the house feel less rotten. Less cramped. Less angry. Like for a little while, some part of her could still go back to when things felt good.
That was why she wanted to be one too.
Just to be like them.
No.
That wasn't true.
Or—not really.
Papa held both her hands in his big rough ones and spun her in circles across the floor. Wind rushed past her ears as they turned. He was grinning so wide it looked silly, and she grinned back even harder because she wanted to match him. His hair kept flying over his face. She laughed at how ridiculous he looked, then laughed harder when her own hair flew into her mouth and made her cough in the middle of it. Papa only laughed too, louder than before, and kept spinning her until both of them nearly fell over dizzy.
Mama held her between her arms while reading from her book. Stella leaned back against her chest, warm and drowsy, listening to the soft rhythm of Mama's voice. When the story ended, she asked for another lullaby. She always liked the lullabies best. Tonight she thought maybe she could sing too. She wasn't sleepy yet. So Mama started singing, and Stella joined in, stumbling over the words, coming in too early sometimes, too late at others, her little voice going crooked in places where Mama's stayed smooth. Mama never pointed it out. She just kept singing with her, like the mistakes weren't mistakes at all. And when it was over, Mama tucked her into bed, bent down, and kissed her cheek. Stella giggled into the blanket every time.
She had danced long before she knew anything about racing idols.
Long before the videos.
Long before the glow sticks and the bright stages and the neat costumes.
She had always done it.
She had always wanted to sing when there was music.
Always wanted to stretch her arms out and twirl until she got dizzy.
Always wanted them to look at her.
She jumped down from Mama's lap and landed in the middle of the living room with both feet. The tablet had just finished playing some performance video, but the music was still alive in her head. So she spun. Hopped. Danced in a crooked little circle with her arms flung out wide. She sang the parts she remembered and made up the rest. Her feet slapped against the floor. Her balance went wrong twice, but she kept going anyway.
Then the song playing in the tablet ended.
She stopped with both arms stretched out and her chest puffed up, holding the pose.
Mama and Papa were smiling.
Papa started clapping, loud and fast, then hooted so hard Mama smacked his arm and told him he was being too loud. But she was laughing when she said it. She clapped too, hers was softer. Papa just grinned and shouted, "Encore!"
Nothing in Stella's chest had ever felt bigger than that.
It had jumped and fluttered and swelled until she thought she might burst from it.
She felt so excited she couldn't sleep that night. Even after being tucked in, even after the lights were off, she lay there smiling into the dark and replaying their faces over and over.
She wanted to make them look like that again.
That was it.
Even before she knew the names of famous umas, even before she watched the races and concerts and costumes and perfect smiles, she had already wanted the same thing.
She wanted to stand in front of them and shine.
She wanted to sing and dance and run and make them smile so hard their faces hurt.
She wanted to hear Papa clap again.
Wanted to hear Mama laugh and tell him to quiet down even while she smiled.
She wanted that look on their faces again.
That proud look.
That warm look.
That look like she had done something wonderful just by being there.
---
The memory broke apart.
Night air hit her face again.
Cold. Wet. Real.
Stella stumbled forward another step, then another. Her breathing came out wrong now—ragged, breaking apart before it could fully leave her chest.
A hitch tore through her throat.
Her vision blurred.
Big, ugly tears spilled from her eyes and ran hot over her face. They kept coming no matter how hard she sucked her breath back in. The buildings around her had grown denser somewhere along the way. Taller. Closer together. Their walls rose on both sides of the street, unfamiliar and dim. She didn't recognize any of them.
"...Hic—"
Her mouth opened again.
"Give them back…"
The words came out thin and broken. Barely more than breath.
She kept moving.
Her foot hit the pavement.
Again.
Again.
Again.
"Mama—"
Her voice cracked.
"Papa—"
Another hitch ripped through her chest.
"Give them back!"
This time the cry tore out of her and scattered into the night. It bounced off concrete walls and shuttered storefronts and empty windows.
No one answered.
No one even looked.
Her bandages had started to loosen. One strip clung wetly to her skin, half-peeled from sweat and blood. Another had slipped lower down her arm. Her ankle screamed every time it touched the ground, but the pain no longer came cleanly. It was drowned under everything else. Her throat hurt. Her ribs hurt. Her head hurt.
All the routines she had pushed through in that abandoned gym.
All the times she had run drills until her legs turned numb.
All the falls.
All the bruises.
All the raspy throats she had dragged through in that empty dance room.
All the humiliations from failed races.
All the rejections for singing.
For dancing.
For not being enough.
All the books she had tripped over and carried and stayed up reading until the words blurred on the page.
All of it.
Was that also why she ran?
Why—
why was it so hard?
Why did it hurt this much?
She knew she had to work hard. She knew that already. She knew nothing good came easy. She knew she had to push more, try more, endure more.
But she couldn't.
She just—
couldn't.
Her breath snagged again.
Another tear slipped down her chin.
She wanted to.
She wanted to so badly it made her chest ache.
But it was too much.
Everything she did only seemed to leave her worse off than before. Worse body. Worse voice. Worse chances. Worse future. She kept trying to move forward and somehow still ended up lower every time.
She had thought—
maybe if she worked hard enough.
Maybe if she kept going long enough.
Maybe if she gave enough.
Sacrificed enough.
Bled enough.
Then something would finally change.
Then somebody would smile.
Then somebody would stay.
Her steps slowed.
Not fully stopping.
Slower now.
Uneven and dragging.
She didn't want to just be a light to people.
She wanted to be a light for them.
She wanted to make them smile again.
Wanted to make them cheer.
Wanted to make them laugh and clap and call for encore.
Wanted to make them dance in the kitchen again. Wanted Papa to spin her around until both of them got dizzy. Wanted Mama to kiss her cheek and laugh softly when she sang the words wrong.
Wanted them to look at her like that again.
---
Warm light. It spilled down from the rigging above and spread across the floor until Stella stood at the center of it all. The microphone rested lightly in her hands. Cool metal against her fingers. Her voice drifted out into the arena as the music swelled behind her, each note leaving her chest easily, carried forward by the rhythm.
Beyond the stage, the crowd stretched farther than she could see. Thousands of glow sticks moved together in the dark—pink, blue, gold—swaying slowly like a quiet ocean under the night sky.
"Stella! Stella! Stella!"
The chant rolled through the stadium in waves, rising and falling between bursts of applause. The song softened. The final note lingered in the air for a moment before fading away.
Stella breathed in.
Then she stepped forward.
A narrow pathway extended from the stage into the audience, marked by small lights along the floor. The crowd leaned toward her as she walked. Faces passed by on either side—smiling, cheering, reaching out.
And then she saw them. Mama and Papa stood together in the middle of the crowd. Mama's arm was wrapped around Papa's waist, her hand resting there while she laughed and cheered along with the others. Papa stood beside her, clapping louder than anyone around him, his grin wide and unashamed.
They were calling her name.
Their faces were bright with warmth and happiness.
They looked at her the way they used to.
Stella took another step toward them.
---
She stepped forward.
Stella stood swaying at the mouth of an abandoned alley.
Blood had soaked through the bandages wrapped around her leg and side. It dripped slowly onto the pavement beneath her feet.
The buildings around her loomed tall and oppressive. Trash bags were piled against the wall. Flattened cardboard sagged beside them, damp and stained.
She took one more step.
Her foot dragged.
Then her knees gave out.
She collapsed forward onto the dirty concrete.
The impact knocked the breath out of her chest. Pain burst through her ribs and ankle at the same time. Her hands scraped against the rough ground.
Her body sagged sideways, half-curled beside the pile of trash bags. The smell of rot and wet cardboard filled her nose.
Her breathing came out thin.
Her eyes struggled to stay open.
The alley blurred.
Darkness pressed in at the edges of her vision.
Step. Step. Step.
Footsteps.
Getting closer.
A shape moved at the end of the alley.
Someone was coming toward her.
Her eyes tried to focus.
They couldn't.
The darkness fully filled her eyes.