As the last of my teammates dispersed into the twilight, their laughter and chatter fading into the evening air, I stood at the edge of the track, watching Baihe's retreating silhouette until it disappeared around the bend.
The quiet settled in—a stark contrast to the intensity of practice.
I turned back toward the lockers, my stomach churning with an unfamiliar mix of resolve and anxiety. Yike was still there, slinging his bag over one shoulder, his usual air of detachment firmly in place.
This couldn't go on. The sharp edges between us were slicing into more than just my patience—they were starting to hurt the team.
"Yike," I called out, my voice carrying through the stillness.
He paused mid-step but didn't turn around right away. For a moment, I thought he might ignore me altogether. But then he turned, his expression as unreadable as ever.
"What?" he asked flatly.
I crossed the distance between us, my heart pounding against my ribs. "We need to talk," I said, my tone steadier than I felt. "This...whatever this is between us—it's not working."
He let out a sharp laugh, the sound more bitter than amused.
"And here I thought we were getting along great."
I clenched my fists at my sides, forcing myself to stay calm.
"I'm serious, Yike. I don't know what your problem is with me, but it's affecting the team."
"My problem?" He raised an eyebrow, his voice rising slightly.
"You think this is just about me? You're not exactly blameless, Taryn."
"Blameless?" I echoed.
"What have I ever done to you, except try to be a decent teammate?"
His jaw tightened, and for a moment, I thought he might storm off. But then he surprised me.
"You don't get it, do you?" he said quietly, almost to himself. He looked away, his gaze fixed on some distant point on the horizon. "You make it look so easy. Everything. Classes, practice, all of it. Like it's nothing to you."
I stared at him, taken aback. "Easy? Do you have any idea how hard I work just to keep up?"
He finally met my eyes, his expression a mixture of anger and something else—something more vulnerable. "You don't have to," he muttered. "People notice you. Baihe, the team, even Ms. Lu. No one notices the guy in the corner with his nose in a book."
For a moment, I didn't know what to say. The cracks in his armor were showing, and I could see the insecurities he'd been hiding beneath his cold exterior. But before I could respond, he shook his head, as if regretting his admission.
"Forget it," he said abruptly, turning to leave.
"No," I said, stepping in front of him. "I won't forget it. You can't just drop that and walk away."
"What do you want from me, Taryn?" he snapped, his voice cutting through the stillness. "An apology? Fine. I'm sorry. Happy now?"
"I want you to stop pushing everyone away," I shot back.
"You think no one notices you? That's not true, Yike. But if you keep shutting people out, how can they?"
His eyes narrowed, but I could see the flicker of uncertainty in his expression.
"Maybe I don't need anyone to notice me," he said, though the words lacked conviction.
"Maybe you do," I countered, softening my tone. "And maybe you need to stop pretending you don't care."
For a moment, we stood there in silence, the tension between us crackling like electricity. Finally, he sighed, running a hand through his hair. "You're...annoying, you know that?"
A small, wry smile tugged at my lips. "Yeah, I've been told."
He shook his head, the corner of his mouth twitching in what might have been the ghost of a smile. "Don't read too much into this," he said, his voice quieter now. "I'm not great at...whatever this is."
"Talking?" I offered, earning a pointed look.
"Yeah. That."
As Yike turned to leave,
"Yike," I called out, my voice hesitant but insistent enough to stop him mid-step.
He glanced back, an eyebrow raised in wary confusion.
"What now?"
I took a breath, steadying myself against the uncertainty that lingered like a shadow. "The other day, at the library," I began, my gaze fixed on him. "You said something to me—something that I haven't been able to stop thinking about."
His expression flickered, a brief moment of unease passing over his features before his usual mask of detachment slipped back into place.
"I say a lot of things, Taryn. You'll have to be more specific."
I stepped closer, meeting his eyes head-on. "You said, 'Who would believe me?'" I paused, watching for his reaction, but he gave me nothing. "And then, 'We can't stop it, but we can be prepared.'"
I saw something shift in his gaze—just for a moment—before he looked away.
"You remembered that?" he muttered, almost to himself.
"How could I not?" I asked, my voice quiet but firm. "What did you mean by it, Yike? What is it that you think no one will believe?"
For a moment, he didn't answer.
"It doesn't matter," he said, though his tone betrayed him. "Forget I said anything."
"No," I said firmly, refusing to let him shut me out.
"That's the problem, Taryn. You think you can just...fix things by caring enough. But some things are bigger than that which you could not even resolve."
I stared at him, taken aback by the bitterness in his voice.
"What things?" I pressed.
When he finally spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.
"Letting it go is safer. For both of us."
With that, he turned and walked away, leaving me standing there with more questions than answers.
Taking a deep breath, I turned and began to gather my things, determined not to let his remarks consume me. But it was easier said than done.
As I made my way home, my thoughts tangled up in something I didn't fully understand yet.
The walls day by day that everyone kept building—there was something more here and there, something no one would dare to say a thing.