I didn't wait for the conversation to continue.

The words hit me harder than any sprint or workout ever had. For weeks, I'd been trying to understand what the coach wanted from me. Then I stopped trying and just became myself again. Now I was standing there listening to him talk like that was the problem. Like loving running was somehow a flaw.

I stepped out from behind the equipment shed.

Both coaches looked toward me immediately.

Neither seemed surprised to see me there.

Of course.

Coaches noticed everything.

"Is that it?"

My voice sounded sharper than I intended.

The assistant coach blinked.

"Hinata—"

"No."

I shook my head.

"No, I want an answer."

The coach looked at me calmly.

That calm expression made me even angrier.

"Is that really the problem?"

Nobody spoke.

I laughed bitterly.

"Seriously?"

My hands clenched into fists.

"I work harder than anyone here."

The coach remained silent.

"I run."

I pointed toward the track.

"I jump."

I pointed toward the pit.

"I train every single day."

My voice cracked.

"What exactly do you want from me?"

The assistant coach shifted uncomfortably.

The coach finally answered.

"I want you to understand why you're doing it."

I stared at him.

The anger burning inside my chest suddenly felt hotter.

"I already know why."

"No."

His voice remained calm.

"You know what you enjoy."

The words felt like a slap.

"And that's different?"

"Yes."

I couldn't believe him.

I genuinely couldn't.

For over a month, every conversation had ended the same way. Every improvement wasn't enough. Every success came with another criticism. Every time I thought I understood the problem, the problem changed.

And now this.

Now apparently loving the sport itself wasn't enough either.

I laughed.

A horrible sound.

One that didn't sound like me at all.

"Then maybe I'm just not what you're looking for."

The assistant coach immediately frowned.

"Hinata—"

I ignored him.

My eyes stayed locked on the coach.

"If that's really your problem."

The words trembled slightly.

"If me loving this isn't enough."

The coach said nothing.

The silence answered for him.

Something inside me broke.

Not loudly.

Not dramatically.

Just quietly.

Like a rope finally snapping after being pulled for too long.

"Then I'll leave."

The assistant coach's eyes widened.

"What?"

I looked directly at the coach.

"Isn't that simpler?"

My throat hurt.

"You can find someone who wants whatever you're talking about."

The coach's expression didn't change.

I hated that.

I hated it so much.

Because if he had looked angry, I could've fought him. If he had looked disappointed, I could've argued. If he had looked guilty, I could've blamed him.

Instead, he just looked sad.

And somehow that was worse.

Then he nodded.

"All right."

The world stopped.

For a second, I thought I had misheard him.

The assistant coach certainly looked like he had.

"What?"

That word escaped both of us.

The coach looked at me.

"If that's your decision."

His voice was quiet.

"I won't stop you."

I stared.

Waiting.

Waiting for him to explain.

Waiting for him to tell me not to be stupid.

Waiting for him to say he didn't mean it.

He didn't.

The assistant coach opened his mouth.

Then closed it again.

Nobody moved.

Nobody spoke.

The wind blew softly across the field.

And suddenly I understood.

There really wasn't a place for me here.

Maybe there never had been.

The realization hurt more than anything else.

I had spent weeks believing I could earn my spot. Then I spent weeks believing I could just be myself. Neither had worked. No matter what I did, I was wrong.

Too reckless.

Too serious.

Too focused.

Not focused enough.

Too carefree.

Too stubborn.

Every version of me seemed to fail.

So maybe there just wasn't a version that belonged here.

I swallowed hard.

My vision had started blurring.

I hated crying.

Especially in front of people.

Especially in front of coaches.

But my eyes were burning.

My chest hurt.

And suddenly breathing felt difficult.

"Fine."

The word came out weak.

Pathetic.

Nothing like how I wanted it to sound.

I turned around immediately.

I didn't want them seeing my face.

I didn't want anyone seeing my face.

My bag was still sitting near the track.

I grabbed it without looking at anyone.

The field had gone completely silent.

Some athletes were staring.

Others looked confused.

A few looked concerned.

I couldn't bear any of it.

So I started walking.

Fast.

Because if I stopped moving, I thought I might completely fall apart.

I made it past the track.

Past the gate.

Past the school entrance.

Then the first tear fell.

I wiped it away instantly.

Another one followed.

Then another.

And another.

Soon I couldn't stop them.

People passed by on the sidewalk.

Cars drove past.

The city kept moving.

Nobody cared.

Nobody noticed.

I walked faster.

The tears kept coming anyway.

It wasn't fair.

That was the thought repeating over and over inside my head.

It wasn't fair.

I loved it.

More than anything.

I loved running.

I loved jumping.

I loved that feeling when the ground disappeared beneath my feet for a split second. I loved the wind against my face. I loved pushing my body until my lungs burned and my legs shook.

I loved all of it.

So why wasn't that enough?

I turned down a side street.

The tears wouldn't stop.

My vision blurred completely.

I ended up sitting on the curb beside an empty playground.

The bag slipped from my shoulder.

For a while, I just sat there.

Crying.

Alone.