The admission hung in the air, raw and unexpected. It softened something in me, though the hurt was still too fresh, too deep. I realized then that while my trophy could be replaced, the years of strained silence and unvoiced pain between us could not be so easily mended.

“I know it’s hard,” I said, my voice gentle but firm. “But I’m not giving up on us. I want us to be okay again, to talk. Can we try?”

He nodded slowly, a glimmer of hope breaking through the hardness of his gaze. “Yeah, maybe we can. It’ll take time, though.”

His words were a tentative offering, and though it wasn’t a promise of immediate reconciliation, it was a start. It was something to hold onto, a fragile thread of connection in the vast sea of our shared grief.

As I went to my room that night, I passed by the remnants of my trophy, scattered and gleaming under the dim hallway light. I knelt down, gathering the pieces in my hands, feeling their sharp edges bite into my skin.