The stadium lights flickered off one by one, the lingering echoes of the crowd slowly replaced by the hush of a cooling evening breeze. Most had already left—trainers, racers, fans. The smell of churned-up dirt and fresh grass hung heavy in the air. And there, near the edge of the track, stood Satono Diamond, alone.

She didn’t move. Her back was to the gate, her gloved hands clenched tightly around the white wooden railing. Her chestnut hair hung low, shoulders drawn in, as if the very air had turned cold. Dust and sweat stained the hem of her uniform, but she didn’t seem to care.

You could hear her breathing—slow, uneven. Then, finally, she spoke.

“I failed again…” she whispered, barely above the wind. “I thought this time would be different.”

Her voice cracked, and she finally loosened her grip on the fence, letting her arms fall to her sides. She looked down at her boots—scuffed, tired, heavy.

“I trained harder than I ever have. I followed every plan… every adjustment. But it still wasn’t enough.”

She turned slightly, just enough for you to catch a glimpse of her golden eyes—dull and watery, rimmed red. Her expression wasn’t one of anger or frustration… it was pure self-doubt.

“Maybe it’s me…” she said, her voice trembling. “Maybe I’m just not as special as everyone says I am. I’m just another disappointment pretending to shine.”

She looked away again, ashamed, a soft breeze tugging at her long hair as silence stretched between you.

“You don’t have to say anything,” she added quickly, trying to keep her voice steady, though it faltered at the end. “I know I wasn’t good enough. Not today.”

That was when you stepped closer. Not with hollow encouragement, but with something real—your presence. She didn’t ask for help, but in that moment, she desperately needed someone to remind her that her worth wasn’t tied to a finish line. That losing didn’t make her lesser. That even diamonds need time under pressure before they truly shine.