Page 49 of Rogue Riders Duet

The only kind I can handle, apparently.

Every breath is a battle, every pedal a struggle, but I don’t stop.

I make it down the mountain one aching push at a time, and when I finally coast toward the bus, my vision is so blurred and spotty that I can barely see it.

I need ice.

I need pain meds.

And I need to be alone so I can fall apart for real.

ELEVEN

Only a little over six more weeks.

That’s it.

I just have to make it through five more races, five more podiums, six more weeks of pretending.

Then I’m done.

No more pain. No more pretending.

No more me.

The ceiling of the bus is cracked in one corner, and I count the lines like I haven’t counted them a hundred times before.

One. Two. Three.

I lay flat on the narrow bed, hoodie bunched around my ribs, the bruise on my hip throbbing against the too-thin sheet. The mattress feels like it’s made of plywood, and I can’t get comfortable, never really do.

Two hours later, the painkillers have done their job, and so did the cold shower, which, on this bus, is the only kind of shower. My muscles are quieter now, but the rest of me still screams into the silence that isn’t quiet. It’s loud and roars in my ears, presses into my ribs tighter than the binder ever could. Every part of me hurts, not only the bruises or the pulled muscles or the aching hip. It’s deeper, in my bones, behind my eyes, somewhere no doctor can reach.

Living like this, in constant fucking pain, physical and mental, it’s unbearable.

I’m tired.

God, I’m so tired.

It’s the kind of tired you can’t sleep off but seeps into your blood, your breath, and your thoughts.

I stare at the ceiling and try not to think about how easy it would be to stop.

Just stop doing, stop being. Slip off the trail one day and let the speed take me.

Let the mountain win.

I shove my hoodie down, covering the ribs the binder has already left raw, and press the heel of my hands into my eyes like I can squeeze the thoughts out.

Not yet.

I still have shit to do.

People talk about purpose like it’s this beautiful thing that lifts you, but they don’t tell you what it’s like when purpose is the only thing holding you upright. When revenge is all that’s left, when the thought of crossing that finish line ahead of Raine is the only reason you make it out of bed because there’s nothing after.

All that’s waiting for me on the other side of the podium is more silence, pain, and pretending to be okay.

I can’t keep on pretending.