𝑳𝑬𝑺 𝑭𝑹𝑨𝑮𝑰𝑳𝑬𝑺 •𝒃𝒙𝒃•

Loss ~ 16

The silence was deafening.

He couldn't hear anything.

The air was suffocating.

Fight.

Win.

Be the best.

"Run..." he whispered and stepped back, "Run..." he repeated and turned around, "Just run away from everything."

With that, he left the stage.

His body trembled.

_

The moment the was out of sight, he stumbled towards a wall and barely managed to keep himself on his feet. What was he doing...? What was he hoping to achieve...? Injuring her like that was unneeded on his part.

And yet...

Fight.

Win.

Be the best.

"Be the best...?" His words were harsh, "Be at the top?"

His back ached.

Do everything that's needed to win.

_

The locker room was empty when he got there. There was no phone ringing. His heart drummed against his ribs, its beats pulsating in his ears.

Ignore everything. Ignore everyone.

Nothing matters. No one matters.

Fight.

Win.

Be the best.

That was the only thing he had to be... That was the only thing he had to focus on.

"You will get first place, or you will face the consequences of failing." His father's chilling voice whispered inside his mind, further raising the barriers around him.

"You don't want last time to repeat." It was like a trigger—his voice. A trigger that got pulled each time Yuma heard it.

And there was no way for him to dodge the bullet.

_

He sat there, in the locker room, just... waiting.

What else was he supposed to do?

The cut on his hand had long since stopped bleeding, only dried smudges of crimson remained to stain his skin.

With shaky movements, he stood up and straightened up. It would be best he went and washed it off, so he did just that. The whiteness of the toilet was somewhat sudden and he felt his head throb in protest. Yet, he ignored it. The water was chilling on his already cold skin, but he paid it no mind. Soon, the water that flowed down turned into a light pinkish colour as the blood was washed away.

And then he made the mistake of looking in the mirror.

His reflection greeted him as if he were an old friend.

Somehow, his eyes looked dimmer than usual, not that it mattered. His hair was a mess, dark, brown strands each going in a different direction. The usual brightness of his skin had grown dull, replaced by a pale colour.

Would it have been better if he looked like his father?

The two beauty marks underneath his eye mockingly stared back at him.

Would his life have been the same if he looked like his father?

Would there have been a change?