I leaned back again, resting against him. The room felt a little quieter, a little heavier. But maybe that was okay. Not everything had to be perfect. Sometimes, just showing up mattered more.
Eventually, I pulled myself away and headed back to my room, the weight of the day finally settling in my bones. I peeled off the layers of my evening and changed into something soft and comfortable. After I drank a glass of milk, I sank into bed, and the silence wrapped around me like a blanket.
My thoughts kept circling back to my sister. Bianca.
She's two years older than me, infinitely more composed. We used to joke that we were twins born in different years, mirror versions of each other with matching laughter and matching secrets. We shared everything.
She was the bookworm, always buried in a new novel, with our Mum curled beside her on the couch. I was the one on the court, chasing balls with scraped knees andblistered palms, Dad calling out drills from the sidelines, beaming when I nailed a serve.
Tennis was my thing. Books were hers. It balanced.
And then everything tipped.
When I got the scholarship to the Wilson Academy in Brisbane, I was nine. Just a kid. I didn’t even fully understand what leaving meant; I just knew Dad was proud, and I loved the sound of applause and the smell of a freshly strung racquet. Dad and Mum had agreed that Dad would go with me so I could chase the dream they believed I was meant for.
Mum, Bianca, and Nan stayed behind.
At first, we Skyped every day. Shared photos. Bianca sent me postcards with book quotes and doodles. I sent her blurry selfies and videos of kangaroos. But slowly, the time difference stretched. The calls grew shorter. She stopped replying.
When I was twelve, Dad decided we had to cut my time at Wilson Academy short because Mum got sick. Bianca didn’t feel like my sister anymore. She was distant and cold, not because she was cruel, but because she was hurt.
And I was too naive to see it.
I tried to bridge the gap. Told her about Brisbane. About my serve stats, the sunrise runs, and the city lights from the academy. She smiled politely. Said nothing. I kept talking. Kept trying. But our closeness had become... brittle.
Then Mum died. And something inside her snapped.
We had this horrible fight, a few days after the funeral. It started small, something about shoes left by the door, I think. But it escalated fast. Years of silence turned into heat.
“You weren’t here,”she finally said, her voice shaking.“You left. You chose tennis. You weren’t here when she needed you. Must be nice being the golden child. I hope your guilt for not being here all those years gets you a standing ovation.”
It landed like a gut punch. I froze, stunned, like all the air had been knocked out of me.
She didn’t yell. She didn’t even look angry. She just said it calmly, cutting, like she’d been waiting to throw that line for years.
I wanted to say something, anything. But what do you even say to that?
I didn’t come back for applause. I came back because I had to. Because Mum was sick. Because everything hurt.
But in that moment, none of that mattered. She never apologized.
And maybe I never truly forgave her.
It wasn’t fair. I was just a kid, and I didn’t know any better. I followed my dream because Mum and Dad believed in me. I didn’t even fully understand what was happening back then.
Now here I am, years later, still carrying the ache of being twelve years old and wondering how it all broke apart so quietly. Still hoping maybe one day she’ll see I didn’t abandon her, I just followed a path someone else opened for me.
I close my eyes, the weight of old memories pressing into the silence. Maybe I can’t fix the past. Maybe she’ll never understand. But I still carry that hope anyway that we will get to talk about it.
CHAPTER 7
ALEXANDRA
The night played on repeat in my head, and I couldn’t stop thinking about Olivia. I didn’t mean to replay it all, but it was like the moment had wedged itself under my skin, impossible to shake, no matter how many miles I tried to bury it under.
And on top of that, I kept waiting for an email or a call from Wimbledon, convinced I’d wake up to a notice that I’d been fined, suspended, maybe even quietly blacklisted from the sport I’d fought for.
But when the message finally came, it wasn’t what I expected.
