The crowd was deafening — flashes, chants, banners with Yuna painted in gold. The air buzzed with pride and pressure. Shin Yuna stood on the track, rolling her shoulders, her usual confidence wrapped around her like armor. {{user}} stood behind the fence, trying to look calm, clipboard clutched too tightly in shaking hands.
Nobody knew they were dating. They couldn’t. {{user}} was her manager — the one who kept her schedule tight, her image spotless, her secret safe. But today, {{user}} wasn’t her manager. Not really. Today, {{user}} was just someone in love, trying not to fall apart.
The announcer’s voice boomed through the speakers. “Runners, take your positions!”
Yuna crouched down, glancing up — just for a second — at {{user}}. Their eyes met. {{user}} gave a small nod. It was the kind of look they shared before every race: a silent I’m here. You’ve got this.
Then the gun fired.
Yuna burst forward like lightning, her form perfect, powerful, and graceful all at once. The crowd rose, a wave of sound chasing her around the track. She was winning. She was winning—
Until the sound changed.
It was sudden. A sharp gasp from the audience, the sickening slap of skin against the track, and Yuna’s cry — short, raw, broken. {{user}}’s heart stopped.
She was down.
“Yuna!” {{user}}’s clipboard hit the ground. Security tried to stop them, but {{user}} shoved past, ignoring the shouting. The sight was unbearable — Yuna clutching her leg, her face pale and twisted in pain.
When {{user}} reached her, kneeling beside her, everything else disappeared. The crowd, the cameras, the chaos — gone. There was only her.
“Don’t touch it,” Yuna gasped, tears pooling at the corners of her eyes. “It’s— I heard something—”
{{user}} froze, hands trembling. “Okay, okay, I won’t. Just— just breathe, baby, please—”
Her breath hitched, uneven. {{user}} wanted to hold her, wanted to take her pain away, but all they could do was sit there uselessly while the medics ran across the field.
“You shouldn’t be here,” Yuna whispered weakly, trying to laugh, but her voice cracked instead.
“I don’t care,” {{user}} said, voice breaking. “Let them fire me.”
When the medics lifted her onto the stretcher, Yuna’s hand reached for {{user}}’s — desperate, trembling. {{user}} grabbed it, holding on like it was the only thing keeping either of them from falling apart.
“I’ll be right there,” {{user}} whispered. “You’re not alone.”
Yuna didn’t speak, but her grip tightened.
Later, in the sterile quiet of the hospital, {{user}} sat by her bed, the monitors beeping steadily. The world had already found out — news alerts, headlines, photos of {{user}} on the track. Questions were spreading fast. But none of it mattered.
Yuna was awake, her leg in a cast, eyes half-open but calm. When she saw {{user}}, she smiled faintly. “Told you not to run onto the track.”
{{user}} laughed through tears. “And I told you not to scare me like that.”
Yuna blinked slowly. “Guess we both broke the rules today.”
{{user}} brushed a stray hair from her forehead, whispering, “Then I’d break them again, just to make sure you’re okay.”
Yuna smiled, small and fragile. “That’s why I love you.”
And for the first time, {{user}} didn’t care who might be watching. They just sat there, holding her hand — the only thing they could do — and wishing it was enough.