Page 72 of Dream On, Liar

Thank you, Dad. Love you.

I sent it before I could talk myself out of it.

The reply came almost immediately.

Dad

Love you too. Don’t skip straight to desserts.

I smiled despite my earlier mood. For all the things I couldn't tell him, for all the things he couldn't fix, he was still my dad.

And tonight, that had to be enough.

15

Maeve

THERE WAS A LOW, uneasy weight sitting in my stomach that I couldn’t quite shake loose.

It had been there the moment I opened my eyes that morning—quiet, persistent, like something had settled wrong overnight and refused to shift no matter how many times I tried to ignore it.

The first day of the match should have felt different. At least, that’s what I’d hoped for. Like stepping into something charged and alive.

Instead, everything felt slightly off-kilter, as if I was moving through a space that no longer quite fit me.

The day had been chaos from the start—assessments, warm-ups, last-minute adjustments, voices overlapping in corridors, the constant shuffle of bodies and equipment as the entire squad prepared to walk out onto the field.

There was barely time to think.

Barely time to breathe.

And then I saw Rihaan.

And everything else dulled around the edges.

He was avoiding me.

Not in a way anyone else would notice. Not in a way that would raise questions or draw attention to our so called ‘truce’. He still moved through the same spaces, still followed the same routines we’d found during the training camp. But I had learned him too well in the time to know.

I knew the difference between his silence and his stillness.

I knew the way he usually filled space without meaning to—small comments thrown over his shoulder, dry remarks under his breath, the occasional argument over music in the treatment room that never really was an argument.

We had found something in between us over the last few weeks. Not friendship. Not quite. But a rhythm that didn’t require effort anymore.

Today, that rhythm was gone.

When he came in this morning for his shoulder and wrist taping, he didn’t look at me, once.

He sat when told. Held still when asked. Answered when spoken to.

But only in fragments.

A nod that barely counted as one. A grunt instead of a reply. A clipped yes or no that felt like it had been cut off before it could become anything more. Usually, when I turned the sessions to completely focus on his pain, he’d find a way to keep the conversation going. Like the silence made him more uncomfortable than the pain itself.

Even Faroq tried to draw him in at one point, talking about the upcoming F1 season the way he sometimes did when the room was quiet enough. Usually, Rihaan would have picked it up, happy to talk about the insights his older brother had shared with him. Even when it was something that made the conversation stretch a little longer than it needed to. Almost like he was trying to test my curiosity.

Today, he didn’t even lift his head.