Dreams are loud.
Engines. Cheers. The smell of fuel. The roar of wheels eating up the track.
That was the dream I'd held onto since I was eight.
And now, it was finally real.
My first official junior karting race.
It wasn't Formula 1. But it was the first lap of the life I wanted.
I wore my suit like armor—black and crimson, just how I imagined. My helmet felt like a crown. My heart raced faster than any machine on the track. But something… something felt missing.
I kept looking into the crowd.
Scanning.
Even though I knew he wouldn't be there.
Why would he come? I never told him. Never invited him.
He probably didn't even know I raced.
But still—some wild, stubborn, Vashti-like part of me hoped.
Hoped he'd magically show up. That maybe, somewhere, deep down, he was curious about the "girl from 6-D." The one who argued with him over the thalamus and made weird analogies about car engines during brain presentations.
He didn't come.
The race began. I gripped the wheel, launched forward, let go of everything except speed.
It was glorious.
Wind screaming. Tires hugging the track.
Me, flying.
For the first time in weeks, I wasn't Vashti the girl who loved a boy who didn't love her.
I was Vashti—the racer.
I finished second. Could've won if I hadn't hesitated on the third turn.
Later, when they handed me the medal, I looked at the stands again.
Empty. Still.
And in that moment, the applause echoed like silence.
That night, in my scrapbook, I drew a finish line.
No crowd. No confetti. No Shabd.
Just me—crossing it alone.
Underneath, I wrote:
"He wasn't there. But I still finished the race. That has to mean something… right?"
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