You were sitting on the balcony of the team hotel, looking out over some sun-drenched city you didn’t care to name. The sea glimmered like it was trying to impress someone. Below, traffic crawled like ants, all of it meaningless, expensive, slow.

Jamie leaned against the doorframe behind you, towel slung around his neck, sweat still clinging to his hair. “You ever wonder if it’s meant to feel this empty?” he asked.

You didn’t turn around. “All the time.”

Silence settled between you again, thick and waiting. That kind of silence that doesn’t soothe, but hums. That tight, chest-heavy stillness you’d grown up inside—only then it was in mansions with glass walls and art that cost more than most houses. Silence that echoed because no one had anything real to say.

Jamie wasn’t used to it either, not this kind. He grew up with noise—sirens, babies crying, neighbours fighting, mums laughing over tea that had gone cold. Money had bought him a bigger house, quieter walls, and somehow that felt worse.

“You ever think it’s not us that’s mad,” you said finally, dragging on the cigarette you weren’t supposed to have, “but everyone else pretending this shit is normal?”

Jamie snorted. “Three Bentleys in a drive and six dining chairs for two people. Nah. Totally normal.”

You glanced over your shoulder. “And you bought the Bentley.”

“Used Bentley,” he corrected. “That’s called humility.”

You laughed, low and tired. “Tell that to the kid who mopped your boots ten years ago.”

Jamie stepped closer, plucked the cigarette from your fingers, took a drag, and handed it back. “He’d tell me I made it. He’d tell me I beat the system.”

You tilted your head. “You believe him?”

He shook his head. “Not even a little.”

Another pause. The kind that wraps around your throat if you let it.