A Confession Under Stars

The air shimmered with the quiet hum of cicadas, a stark contrast to the usual cacophony of the city. We were at my uncle’s sprawling estate, a place I’d always associated with summer holidays and the scent of jasmine. Tonight, however, it felt different. A private gathering, an intimate affair for a select few, had drawn us both here. I’d come with my cousins, expecting a night of polite conversation and forced smiles, but then I’d seen her. Valerie. She stood by the edge of the terrace, a solitary figure against the velvet expanse of the night sky, her silhouette sharp and defined even in the dim light.

My heart gave a familiar, unwelcome flutter. It had been months since I’d last worked on her projects, months since I’d poured my soul into designs that had ultimately been met with that chilling indifference. I’d retreated, burying myself in the familiar comfort of the badminton court and the exhilarating rush of the racing track. It was a different kind of competition, one where the wins felt earned, where my efforts were met with cheers, not silence.

But seeing Valerie, standing there like a queen surveying her domain, stirred something within me. A ghost of that old ache, the longing for her approval, for a word of genuine praise. I’d told myself I was over it, that I’d moved on. And I had, for the most part. Badminton had taught me resilience, racing had taught me focus. But a part of me, the part that had dared to dream of shaping skylines, still smarted from her dismissal.