Page 108 of The Beautiful Collision
With every quarter-mile, the careful distance between us shrinks. Not consciously—I don’t think either of us makes the decision to move closer—but naturally, like gravity or magnetism or whatever force makes broken things try to become whole again.
My shoulder brushes his as we navigate a tight corner, and I have to resist the insane urge to grab his hand. This isn’t a rom-com where everything gets fixed with a dramatic gesture. This is real life, where forgiveness has to be earned step by step, breath by breath.
His stride shortens just enough to match mine. It’s subtle—probably invisible to anyone else—but I feel it in the way our rhythms align, the way we become a single unit moving through space, two fiercely independent and broken people becoming one irresistible force.
By mile two, we’re running hip to hip, our arms occasionally brushing with each swing. My lungs are screaming, and my legs feel like they’re made of concrete, but I refuse to slow down. This physical pain is nothing compared to what we’ve put each other through. If he can keep going, so can I.
The course loops back toward the athletic fields, and I can see the finish line banner in the distance. Some competitive part of me wants to sprint, to push ahead and beat him across the line. But that’s not what this is about, and he seems to get it as well, because he could leave me in his dust if he wanted to.
As we round the final corner, I match him step for step. We cross the finish line at the same moment, our bodies giving out in perfect synchronization. I stumble, my legs finally rebelling against what I’ve asked of them, and his hand shoots out to steady me.
I grab onto him without thinking, using him for support.
His hand is on my elbow.
My fingers are twisted in his race shirt.
We’re both slick with sweat, panting like we’ve just run a marathon instead of three miles, and for a moment—just a moment—I let myself lean into him. Let myself remember what it feels like to have him hold me up when I can’t stand on my own.
“Water,” I manage to gasp, pulling away before I do something stupid like hug him or punch him.
We stumble toward the volunteers handing out bottles while, around us, other runners are finishing, the announcer’s voice booming updates about the fundraising total. Someone claps Maine on the back, congratulating him, but he barely seems to notice. His eyes haven’t left me since we crossed the line.
I can’t handle the weight of that gaze right now. Not with my emotions scraped raw from the run. “I should get back,” I say, already stepping away.
“Maya.”
Just my name, but the way he says it stops me cold. Not pleading, not demanding. Just… defeated. Like he’s already accepted that I’m going to walk away again, like I’ve lit a spark of hope in his chest only to pour water over it all over again.
“Later,” I promise, and I mean it. “After everyone’s gone. We’ll talk.”
He nods, understanding that this isn’t a rejection—it’s a rain check.
I start to leave, then turn back. “Maine?” I say.
“Yeah?”
“That was a good run.”
The smile that breaks across his face is worth every burning muscle, every ragged breath, every complicated feeling churning in my chest. And as I make my way back to the registration area, where Sophie is handling things with her usual quiet competence, she raises an eyebrow.
“What?” I say, feeling defensive.
“Nothing,” she says, then squeezes my shoulder.
The next hour passes in a blur of announcements and thank-yous and final tallies. The fundraising thermometer’s final total makes my chest tight with something that might be pride or might be tears trying to escape: $189,000 and still climbing with online donations.
Enough for Chloe’s treatment.
Enough for hope.
As the crowd finally starts to thin and volunteers begin breaking down tables, I spot Maine standing by the empty athletic fields, away from the celebration. He looks exactly like he did that night I found him slumped against our apartment door—exhausted, vulnerable, completely stripped of his usual bravado.
My feet carry me to him without conscious thought. “Hi,” I say.
“Hi,” he responds, and somehow it’s perfect.
We stand there for a moment, two people who are used to being the social oxygen, the life of the party, the loudest people in any room. But this time, we’re silent, people who’ve saidthe worst things to each other trying to find our way back to something better.
