The truth is, the only people who I know love me purely for me are my friends, and even they know me through volleyball.
My parents started paying attention only once I became known.
I was never close to my siblings.
My brother and I competed constantly; my parents made everything a contest, and the reward was their love.
As toxic as it seems, it’s the reality of my childhood.
Their love was earned.
My sister is thirteen years younger, a bright little presence, but not someone I ever really connected with.
It’s complicatedhas always been my explanation.
My family is complicated.
The cruelest part is that I probably would have gotten into volleyball anyway.
The thing is, in that case, I would be playing simply for the joy of it.
The points would only be celebrated for one night, then I would go back to myself, the human, not the charts.
But I never do.
I can’t.
I play for bigger reasons — reasons tangled with grief, obligation, and responsibility.
And that makes every victory a slightly heavier thrill than it is.
I get up and reach for my phone.
Tilly texted me.
I managed to hide Tilly everything from Matt while setting up, which felt impossible.
I didn't really need to, because Yana and Zara probably saw everything, and will be talking about it, but I didn’t need him to see the stupid grin while I was writing each note.
I also know for a fact that I like Tilly. She plays on my mind more than I want to admit.
Being around her is a constant exercise in self-control. I keep reminding myself to smile, laugh, andnotact weird.
But when I’m away from her, I let myself grin and not have to make stupid excuses.
I let myself think of her as more, and I don’t feel guilty for it.
Everything I told her on the message, all of it is true. I don’t regret sending it to her.
I don’t regret anything when it comes to her.
Tills:
Check this out!
I open the picture. It’s a frame overflowing with at least half of the notes I wrote for her.
She added little stickers around it.
