I should've been used to it by now.
The silence.
The absence.
The lack of phone calls, messages, or even a half-hearted "Congrats, anak" in a tone that didn't sound rehearsed.
But still, it stung.
I unlocked the front door to our house in Makati and stepped into marble floors and cold air.
The lights were on. Mom and Dad were home.
For some reason, I expected it to be empty again, like it always was when i returned from something that mattered to me.
I dropped my duffel on the entryway bench.
Jupiter's photo, taken from last year's race, was still framed by the stairs. They had it blown up like some kind of tribute.
Ironic, right. They could hang pictures of my wins, but not once had they actually been there.
Not even this one.
My fourth gold.
I heard clinking from the dining room.
Mom and Dad were already eating dinner.
I didn't bother to freshen up, for what? No one cared how exhausted i am.
I walked in, still in my racing jacket, dusty boots clicking against the tiles.
"Anak," Dad said, glancing up for a split second. "I heard you won again."
I didn't answer. I'm too busy trying not to lose it right there in front of them.
Mom didn't even look up.
She was still scrolling on her phone, fork hovering mid-air.
"Congratulations, ha," she added. "Good job."
That was it.
No "We're proud of you."
No "We watched it live."
No "We'll make it up to you."
I stared at the back of her phone case, a custom leather one with Lueur Empire logo pressed in the corner, Well! of course.
They always had time for Fragrance.
For events. For business trips.
For Sebastian's concerts.
Even when he was abroad, they'd fly out just to sit front row. Wave glow sticks. Wear customized shirts.
When i brought home my first racing medal?
No one was at the airport.
Again, just my yaya, crying, holding a mini welcome home sign she made herself.
They weren't bad parents.
They just never saw me.
I sat down across from them, took one bite of the roast chicken, and stood up again.
"Thanks," I mumbled.
And left.
My room looked the same.
Always clean. Always quiet.
Trophies lined the shelves.
Medals hung from glossy hooks.
Achievements they didn't witness.
Dreams they didn't even know i had.
-
I changed into an oversized tee and gym shorts, tied my hair in a loose bun, and sat on the edge of the bed.
It shouldn't hurt.
But it did.
God, it did.
And yet, I didn't cry.
I just stared at the white ceiling and thought, They didn't even text.
Was that so hard?
Just a Congratulations, Atasha over Messenger?
Even a 👍 emoji would've been something.
But no. Silence. Like always.
Like i was born already fading behind them.
They didn't even mean to make me feel this way.
I knew that.
Sebastian was the golden boy, and rightly so.
He worked hard.
He trained for years.
He survived the insane world of K-pop and rose above it.
They were proud of him, and so was i.
He deserved the stage.
But sometimes, it felt like i was just… the accidental child.
Like they had me just because they were supposed to.
Love doesn't feel like love if it's always… later.
-
I flopped on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
I had a meeting tomorrow.
No rest day.
No warm welcome.
Just another line on my calendar.
Tito Ben, the one who was supposed to coach me for the Manila track—had gotten into an accident.
A minor one, they said.
He'll be okay.
But he needs to rest.
Doctor's orders.
It messed with my whole schedule.
I actually liked working with him.
He's patient. Honest. Firm but never condescending—rare, in this sport.
He never treated me like some rich girl with a death wish, unlike the others.
But what could i do?
Accidents happen. People rest. Life moves on.
And i still had goals.
I couldn't afford to stop.
Aside from horseback riding, car racing had always been my secret.
My obsession.
My escape.
I started training last year in LA quietly, without telling anyone but my yaya.
She helped me sneak out of charity galas and luncheons just so i could race around abandoned lots under the guidance of a retired Formula 3 driver.
It wasn't a phase.
It was freedom.
No tiaras.
No velvet gowns.
No camera clicks.
Just me, The engine, The road.
I remembered the first time i held a steering wheel on a track, I was seven.
It was just a go-kart ride at a birthday party, and a friend of Dad's let me take over for a few seconds.
I felt the speed.
The rush.
The silence in the chaos.
I've been chasing that silence ever since.
I live in a world where everyone talks over me. Plans my days.
Dictates what i should wear, say, or post.
But on the track… I make the turns.
I choose when to brake.
I decide how far i go.
It's the only place where i feel in control.
That's why even now, when i'm tired and no one notices, I still choose this.
Even when it hurts.
-
Tomorrow i'll be meeting with the new coach.
Someone from the Buenaventura Grand Circuit.
He trained pros. Champions.
He probably thinks i'm just another bored heiress trying to tick off an adrenaline-junkie bucket list.
But i'm not.
I'm serious.
I always was.
No one sees the way my hands shake before a lap or how i study engine diagrams until my eyes burn or how i work double-time just to hide all of this from Mom and Dad, because God forbid their daughter becomes more than what looks good on press releases.
I grabbed my phone.
Opened my notes app.
Typed a line:
No one claps when you win if they don't know you're racing.
I stared at it for a while.
Then locked the screen.
Tomorrow, I'll show up.
Like i always do.
Because this.., this dream, this fire.., is mine.
And if no one else sees it…
At least i do.
I turned off the lights.
And slept.