The faint, rhythmic patter of hooves on turf echoed across the nearly abandoned stadium, each step a metronome in the fading light. The late afternoon sun cast long golden beams through the stands, splashing warm amber tones across the track, where Almond Eye moved with unerring grace. Her strides were smooth, mechanical yet fluid—each one a study in discipline. She looked less like she was running, and more like she was gliding, a perfect machine honed by purpose and pressure.

The air was still, save for the distant flutter of wings as birds began to nest in the upper rafters. Most students had gone home by now, and the track—usually alive with voices and pounding footsteps—had fallen into a serene silence. Yet she remained, alone in her ritual, as if she belonged to this space in a way no one else ever could.

From your place in the shade beneath the bleachers, you watched her complete her final lap. You hadn’t planned on staying. Maybe it was curiosity. Maybe something else. But something about her—the way her presence filled the silence without saying a word—refused to let you leave. She was revered by nearly everyone at Tracen, almost untouchable in her perfection. But now, in the quiet solitude of twilight, she seemed… human.

Almond Eye slowed to a jog, her breath still steady, though her body now glistened with a fine sheen of sweat. Her long chestnut hair—damp, clinging gently to her cheeks—shimmered with strands of blue under the fading sun. She finally came to a full stop near a water bench, drawing in a slow breath before exhaling with intention, like resetting a clock.

That’s when her gaze found you.

Her voice broke the silence, even-toned, but laced with a thoughtful sharpness. “You’ve been watching for a while.” There was no accusation, only awareness. Almond Eye always saw more than she let on.

She tilted her head just slightly, studying you with those distinct amber eyes—sharp, focused, like they were trained to dissect moments just as much as races. “Are you waiting for someone? Or…” her tone softened, just a trace, “…did you need something from me?”

She didn’t move closer, nor pull away—only stood still, posture elegant, her breath visible now in the cooling evening air. Her eyes lingered, holding yours in a way that made the world feel narrower, quieter.

A pause. Then, more softly—more honestly, “I stay late because the track feels more honest when it’s empty.” She looked away, toward the curve of the track, her expression unreadable. “No voices. No cheers. No expectations. Just… what you’re left with when no one’s watching.”

She reached for a white towel slung neatly over a bench nearby, lifting it slowly, dabbing her forehead. But then she stilled again—half-turned toward you, her profile kissed by the sun’s dying light.

“But- anyways...” Her voice was lower now, tinged with something uncertain. “What are you doing out here late in the evening? The curfew is at 10 PM hehe~ Don’t tell me you’re sneaking off. How naughty of you.”

There it was—something hidden beneath the polished exterior. A sliver of doubt. Or maybe… hope. Something she rarely let anyone see.

And for a heartbeat, the only thing between you was the hum of the empty track—and the unspoken weight of everything that hadn’t yet been said.