The world always slowed down for me at the final stretch.
It was strange, really how silence wrapped around my ears despite the thunder of the crowd, the pounding hooves beneath me, the wind ripping through my hair like it wanted to tear me apart.
But all i could hear was my own breath.
Sharp, Measured, Detached.
Just like always.
I leaned forward, muscles burning, fingers tightening around the reins of Midnight Jupiter.
He responded like second nature, like he could feel the weight behind my silence, the kind of heaviness you don't train for.
The kind that lives in your blood.
"Go, boy," I muttered under my breath.
He surged forward.
The finish line blurred into a white streak across the track.
One heartbeat. One final breath.
We crossed it.
And just like that, it was over.
Another win.
My fourth, technically.
My sixth, if you counted the amateur cups.
But no one ever did and neither did i.
They handed me flowers i didn't want. Shoved a mic in my face.
Cameras flashed like fireworks, and people cheered my name like they knew me.
But the only face i searched for in the crowd wasn't there.
As usual.
"Anastasia, can we get a smile for The Stride Weekly?"
"Do you think this solidifies you as a top rider in the international league?"
"Is it true you trained in Spain for only seven months before this win?"
They wanted soundbites.
I gave them a smile.
Polished, Perfect, Empty.
Then i slipped away, helmet in hand, boots covered in dust, bouquet abandoned on the table beside a champagne tower i didn't touch.
I hated champagne.
The tent behind the track was decorated like a victory party.
Soft jazz.
Velvet chairs.
Waiters carrying trays of things i couldn't pronounce.
And yet—
My parents weren't here.
Of course they weren't.
They never were.
It wasn't even worth getting mad anymore.
I had known, even before i mounted Jupiter this morning, that there'd be no familiar faces in the crowd.
No proud smiles from the stands.
No camera phone zooming in on me from the VIP box.
Just strangers clapping for a girl they thought had it all.
-
I pulled my phone out of my jacket and opened my inbox.
Nothing.
No missed calls.
No good luck message.
Not even a damn thumbs up.
Figures.
Claudia Araneta-Gutierrez and Raphael Gutierrez were probably in Singapore, discussing some Lueur expansion.
Or maybe Dubai.
Or maybe… wherever their money needed to be.
And if they weren't, they were probably watching my brother perform.
Sebastian was having his world tour in Japan this week. Third night. Sold out.
Mom would've flown out, obviously.
Dad, too, if his calendar allowed it.
They always made time when it was for him.
And honestly? I wasn't even mad at Sebastian.
He's a good brother, when we saw each other.
He always made me laugh.
He never promised to show up, because he knew better.
He knew what kind of family we were.
And unlike me… he had fans who screamed for him.
People who cared.
Managers, stylists, an entire continent waiting for his next move.
Me?
I had Jupiter, my horse.
And my yaya.
Yaya Minda was the only one who ever came to my races.
Even today, she sat in the corner of the bleachers under a faded pink umbrella, probably clutching the rosary she always carried in her coat.
She didn't like flying.
But she flew to Kentucky for me.
She wasn't blood.
But she was there.
-
I sat at the edge of the stables and kicked some gravel with my boot, trying to shake off the ache in my chest that came with every win.
Funny, isn't it?
How you can win and still feel like you lost something.
Again.
I remembered my high school graduation.
How they emailed me a digital diploma because i finished early and refused to attend the ceremony without my family.
Only Minda showed up that day too.
I remembered my first gold in Madrid.
The call from my father came two days late, squeezed in between meetings.
Mom sent me a Hermes scarf.
No note.
That was the Gutierrez way.
Expensive silence.
Jupiter huffed beside me, his breath warm against my arm. I reached up and scratched his cheek.
"Sorry you had to carry all that," I murmured.
"But hey, at least one of us showed up."
He nudged me like he understood.
It was enough.
The sun was starting to set, casting gold over the track.
People were still mingling behind the glass walls, drinking to my success like it meant something to them.
I watched them from a distance, heels clicking, laughter echoing, branded names stitched into every label they wore.
They clapped for the girl on the podium, but they didn't know her.
Not really.
Not the girl who sat at five years old in a luxury estate wondering why her birthday had thirty guests but no parents.
Not the girl who trained alone for months in Spain, scraping her own palms raw because the stablehands only spoke Spanish and she didn't.
Not the girl who kept winning medals just to get a text back.
They didn't know her.
They wouldn't care if she quit tomorrow.
But i wasn't quitting.
Not yet.
Because as empty as the podium felt, it was still mine.
And there was something stubborn inside me that refused to let the silence win.
They could ignore my victories all they wanted.
I'd just keep giving them something to ignore.
-
Later that night, I walked back into the hotel suite with Minda quietly folding my riding clothes into a garment bag.
She looked up and smiled gently.
"Congratulations, anak," she said, her voice soft. "You looked beautiful out there. I 'm so proud."
I didn't answer right away.
Just stared at the window, where the city lights flickered like tiny reminders that the world kept moving, whether they clapped for me or not.
Then i whispered, "Do you think they'll ever watch me?"
Minda didn't lie.
"No," she said simply. "But that doesn't mean you're not worth watching."
And maybe that's all i needed to hear.
Maybe that's why j still raced.
Still trained.
Still showed up when no one else did.
Because being forgotten didn't mean i was forgettable.
And one day…
They'd regret missing this view.
I promise.