Chapter 9: The Unseen Support
The silence that followed felt heavier than any warehouse pallet. For two days, Liam moved through his routine with robotic precision. The warehouse, the library, the charts. The climb was all that remained, a stark, solitary path. He told himself this was better. This was purity. This was focus.
But his focus was brittle. In the library, his mind drifted from Fourier transforms to the hurt in Valentina's eyes. During his warehouse shift, the monotonous stacking became a backdrop for replaying their conversation. He'd been cruel, he realized. Not intentionally, but with the cold efficiency of someone prioritizing a system over a person.
His trading suffered for it. He overtraded, forcing setups that weren't there, chasing losses on the paper account. The discipline he'd worked so hard to build was fraying. He was breaking his own rules, and he knew it. The stop-loss wasn't just a tool for the markets; it was a principle for his life, and he was blowing through it.
On the third day, a Tuesday, he walked into his art history lecture bracing himself. He kept his eyes down, taking his seat in the back. He could feel her presence a few rows ahead, a knot of tension in his periphery.
When the professor began his lecture, on the stark minimalism of Donald Judd, Liam found himself, for the first time, actually listening. The professor spoke about reduction, about stripping away the non-essential to reveal the core structure. About how the empty space *between* the objects was as important as the objects themselves.
Liam's mind, trained now to find patterns, made the connection instantly. His life had become a brutalist sculpture. All function, no form. All core, no context. He had stripped away everything he deemed non-essential, including the one thing that had given the grind meaning beyond mere survival.
The lecture ended. He watched Valentina gather her things, expecting her to leave without a glance. But she didn't. She walked up the side aisle, and for a heart-stopping second, he thought she was coming to him. Instead, she stopped at the professor's desk, engaging him in a question about the reading.
The dismissal bell rang. Students flooded out. Liam stayed in his seat, pretending to check his phone, waiting. He didn't know what he would say, only that he had to say something.
Finally, the professor left. Valentina turned, her expression unreadable, and began walking toward the door. She was going to walk right past him.
"Val," he said, his voice rough.
She stopped, her hand on the doorframe, but didn't turn around.
"I've had three losing trades in a row," he said. It was the only truth he could offer that wasn't an apology. A confession of failure.
She slowly turned to face him. "Okay."
"I was impatient. I broke my rules." He looked down at his hands. "You were right. About the water."
The hallway was empty now. The only sound was the distant hum of the ventilation system.
"I'm not trying to be a distraction, Liam," she said, her voice even. "I'm not asking you to stop climbing."
"I know."
"I'm just suggesting you don't have to bleed all the way up the mountain." She took a step closer. "My offer wasn't for a party. It was for a bench. A place to sit for a minute so you don't pass out from exhaustion."
He finally looked up and met her gaze. The hurt was still there, but it was tempered with a stubborn patience. "I think... I think I could use a bench," he admitted, the words feeling like a surrender that was also a victory.
A small, cautious smile touched her lips. "Good. There's a bench outside the library. The one under the oak tree. I'll be there Friday after my seminar. Around four. If you make it, you make it. No pressure."
She left then, and Liam was left with the echo of her words. He looked at the charts on his phone, the red of his losses. He had been so focused on the lines, the peaks and troughs, that he had missed the most important level of support—the one that existed not on the screen, but in the world. It was unseen, like the space between Judd's boxes, but it was the only thing holding the entire structure together. And he had almost let it fail.