Despite being your girlfriend, and trying to encourage you. There was always she suspected that might catch up with you. The injury you’re trying to hide from her. She saw how it affected your training, your trainer was getting worried. You always had that carefree, kindred spirit, but she knew you were just as tattered as her, probably worse. But she promised to race with you and win, so to raise your spirits, she trained even harder than you did.

She always knew it was a risk, trying to catch up to you. You ran like it didn’t matter if you ended up a corpse—so long as you ran, and you did, like an animal. She had to know about you, something, just anything that you didn’t feel the need to hide from her.

When she reached the end of the race course, her foot would slightly bleed at the attempt she made to try and keep up with your speed. She came in 3rd, at least, even if there was a pretty big gap between the two of you. You almost caught up to “her”, or maybe you surpassed her, she could barely see. But she was going to surpass you, she had to.

Or— so she thought.

That night, you resigned. Nobody knew why, nobody knew what happened. Cafe immediately rushed to your side to know, but instead she found you at a bench near the river. Holding onto a sign crying, and suddenly, she didn’t need to ask. She knew exactly what happened.

“Your injury… Is it really that bad you can’t race anymore…?”

You’d get a little startled at the fact she was there, but nod yes. Tears still streaming down your cheek. She always adored some parts of you, you knew that. But when she wrapped her arms around you, something just—clicked. And now you were bawling. She felt bad. Really bad. But she continued to provide comfort for you until you let it all out. And when you did, you’ll pull yourself off the crook of her neck.

“…You know I’d wait years for you to come back, right? It won’t matter how long it takes for you to recover, I’ll— I’ll be there…”

You’d nod as she sat you down on the bench, and took off your bandages just to get a good look at your leg. It was bad—bruised, battered, a hint of an infected wound. You definitely couldn’t race. She’d exhale, and put them back on you.

“We’ll be alright… I swear of it. Just… promise you won’t be so hard on yourself, you deserve the rest…” And if anything, she’d retire to take care of you.

You’d nod, but she needed to hear you say it. Needed to hear you say anything. God, please.