The Meet
The early morning sun cast long shadows across the track, painting the stadium in a gentle gold. Tucked within NYU’s athletic complex, the stands slowly filled with supporters: students, faculty, curious locals who’d come to see the final collegiate track meet of the season. Buzzing anticipation rippled through the air—teams from other schools milled about, warming up or trading nervous jokes.
Cruz paced near the starting line, muscles keyed for action. She pressed a hand over her eyes to shield them from the glare as she scanned the bustling scene. Big final meet. Gotta make it count. The subtle ache in her calf reminded her how hard she’d been pushing in practice. Still, she couldn’t let up. Not now.
Her track teammates clustered around, some bantering, others tightening laces or adjusting uniforms. Coach Joe stood off to the side, clipboard in hand, giving last-minute instructions with her usual stern efficiency. Cruz tried to focus on the words, but adrenaline thrummed in her veins, crowding out rational thought.
A hush of dread lingered in the back of her mind. Aaliyah might show. She’d glimpsed her, on occasion, at smaller meets—nothing official, just politely “supporting students,” as Aaliyah liked to say. But with the way Cruz had iced her out, she doubted the TA would bother. And if she does… well, I’ll ignore her. She told herself that was the plan. No distractions.
--
Aaliyah slipped through the stadium’s entrance about twenty minutes before the scheduled race, hugging the strap of her shoulder bag. She wore simple jeans, an NYU sweater, and sunglasses, hoping to blend into the crowd. Her heart hammered despite her calm facade. What am I doing here?
She told herself it was normal for a TA to support her students at major athletic events—especially if some were on the track team. School spirit and all that. Technically, she had come for all of them, not just Cruz… Except we both know that’s a lie, a nagging voice added. She lingered near the fence, scanning the lanes until she spotted Cruz’s dark ponytail, the familiar shape of her stride as she stretched.
A pang of longing seized Aaliyah’s chest. The distance between them felt more tangible than the physical space of the stadium. Since their near-kiss had imploded into miscommunication and cold shoulders, she’d yearned for some sign that Cruz didn’t resent her entirely. But the glimpses in class—Cruz refusing eye contact, stiff posture—only confirmed that resentment was alive and well.
Why did I come? She shifted uncomfortably. Pride and fear warred in her mind. She could still leave. No one had really noticed her yet, and it was possible Cruz wouldn’t even see her in the stands. Then again, she’d feel guilty for sneaking away. I do want to see her race. I can’t help it.
She took a seat about halfway up the bleachers, scanning the infield. Just a TA supporting her students, she repeated like a mantra. The tension in her limbs told a different story. Every nerve buzzed with the hope of seeing Cruz excel, maybe the vain wish of a fleeting exchange afterward. Don’t be foolish, she chastised herself. She’s been cold for weeks. Focus on the race, clap politely, go home.
--
Down on the field, Cruz shook out her arms, did a few bounding strides, forcing herself into the right headspace. Forget everything else. Coach Joe approached, barking quick instructions.
“Your event’s up soon. You need to keep calm. Don’t let the crowd or anything else get in your head. Got that?”
“Yes, Coach,” Cruz answered, rolling her shoulders.
Joe gave her a once-over. “You’re in top form, but you’ve been pushing yourself too hard. Remember, the 800 is about pacing. Don’t blow out too fast in the first lap.”
Cruz nodded mechanically. She knew the drill, she’d run the 800 a dozen times. Yet her heart pounded harder than usual. It’s my last collegiate meet. No next time if I screw up. Anxiety coiled, fueling adrenaline.
She jogged toward the starting area, ignoring the spectators. The lane assignment list was posted on a tall board—Cruz found her name, lane four. Familiar enough. She steadied her breathing. This is it. One last shot to shine.
--
From her spot in the stands, Aaliyah watched as the women’s 800-meter runners filed onto the track. Her eyes locked on Cruz’s lithe figure. The sun caught the faint sheen of sweat on Cruz’s arms, highlighting the tense lines of her muscles. She looks so determined, Aaliyah thought, chest tightening with pride and something deeper.
She scanned the stands, noting small clusters of fans from other teams, occasional parents, random students. Thankfully, no one seemed to recognize her as the TA from that class. She kept her sunglasses on, arms folded in her lap. I just want to see her run, she told herself again, ignoring the swirl of longing that overshadowed her good intentions.
Cruz stepped onto the starting line, eyes forward, jaw set. Aaliyah’s stomach flipped. She willed Cruz to do well, to outrun whatever heartbreak lingered between them. You can do this, Cruz. The silent cheer burned in Aaliyah’s mind.
--
Officials signaled the runners to their marks. Cruz dropped into position, tension coiling through her legs. Clear your head. She forced a slow exhale. The starter’s gun cracked.
They launched as one, the stadium’s ambient noise dissolving into a surge of motion. Cruz found her rhythm quickly, staying near the front pack. Her strides felt strong—muscles responding with well-honed precision. Just run.
Cheers burst from the stands, and Cruz caught the announcer’s excited commentary. By 200 meters, she was in second place, right behind a top contender from Carnegie. The first lap blurred in a rush of pounding feet and quickened breaths.
--
Rounding the curve into the second lap, Cruz’s plan was to kick in the last 150 meters. Her body thrummed with the familiar ache, adrenaline spiking in every limb. But out of the corner of her eye, she spotted a figure in the stands—dark hair, sunglasses, slight form. Aaliyah.
Her chest constricted, steps faltering for a split second. Why is she here? She nearly missed her stride coming off the curve. For a heartbeat, her focus splintered—memories of the near-kiss, the cold distance, the dinner scene with that guy. She forced her attention back to the track, but the damage was done.
The runner behind her seized the moment, surging ahead to slip into second place. Another competitor pressed from the outside. Cruz stumbled, arms flailing to keep her balance. By the time she regained composure, she’d lost her position entirely.
“Fuck,” she hissed under her breath, pushing harder. But the mental crack proved fatal. She couldn’t find her earlier rhythm, each stride heavier than before. A wave of frustration and embarrassment collided, tying knots in her lungs. Focus, you idiot.
She finished the final straight at a disappointing fourth place—still respectable, but nowhere near the personal victory she’d craved for her last collegiate meet.
--
Bent double at the finish line, Cruz gasped for air. The other runners milled around, some congratulating each other. She registered the pat on her back from a teammate, the calls of “Good job, Cruz!” She nodded vaguely, chest heaving. Fourth? That was a far cry from the top of the podium she’d envisioned.
“Manuelos, hey,” Coach Joe came over, sounding disappointed but not harsh. “What happened out there? You were in second, then you lost it.”
Cruz mopped sweat from her forehead. “Lost focus,” she managed between breaths.
Joe eyed her carefully. “Happens to the best of us. Your time’s still decent. Don’t beat yourself up too much. But next time—if you let your head get to you, it’s game over.”
Cruz nodded stiffly, shame burning in her gut. Last meet… no next time. She nodded absently to a few cheering classmates in the stands, forcing a thin smile. It could’ve been worse. But the regret gnawed at her. She couldn’t shake the image of Aaliyah’s face, perched among the spectators. Why couldn’t I ignore her presence?
--
Aaliyah had stood the moment the runners crossed the line. She’d seen Cruz’s stumble in that final lap, recognized the brief glitch in her usually flawless stride. It’s my fault. The realization was a punch to the gut. She’d come “just to support,” but all she did was shatter Cruz’s focus.
Stomach churning, she clapped politely with the crowd, heart heavy. Cruz lingered near the finish line, shoulders slumped. She looks devastated. Aaliyah’s chest squeezed with a desire to comfort her, to say something—anything—but she knew better than to rush down onto the track. She was just the TA, and an unwelcome one at that.
She debated leaving immediately, avoiding any possible confrontation. But part of her insisted on staying, in case… In case I find the nerve to explain. She wavered, feet glued to the bleacher step. Let me just watch from a distance.
Eventually, she descended from the stands, weaving through small clusters of spectators. She gravitated toward the chain-link fence that separated the track from the seating area, scanning for a glimpse of Cruz. The crowds jostled around her, half of them leaving after certain races concluded. Aaliyah clutched her bag, anxiety mounting. I might not get another chance if she disappears.
--
Cruz trudged off the infield, teammates offering commiserations. She gave them halfhearted nods, mind spinning. She spotted Bobby waving from near the fence, calling her name. Numbly, Cruz headed that way.
But instead of just Bobby, her gaze caught Aaliyah’s slender frame at the fence line. Sunglasses perched atop her head now, revealing worried green eyes. She’s still here. Cruz’s heart lurched with conflicting emotions—anger, embarrassment, a twisted longing.
Bobby stepped aside as Cruz neared, and for an instant, Cruz and Aaliyah locked eyes. Tension crackled like a static charge.
“Cruz,” Aaliyah began softly, hand gripping the fence, “are you okay?”
Are you okay? The simple question made Cruz’s frustration flare. Why is she asking now? Her voice came out taut. “Why are you here?”
Aaliyah swallowed, glancing at Bobby, who politely backed away. “I’m— I came to support the students,” she said, her gaze flicking over Cruz’s sweaty, tense form.
Cruz’s lips twisted in a bitter half-smile. “Really? Doesn’t seem like you’ve been ‘supporting’ me in any other context lately.”
Aaliyah’s cheeks colored. “Cruz, I just—”
She broke off as another wave of spectators pressed past, momentarily jostling them. The contact jarred Cruz’s side, but she held her ground. She breathed heavily, still not fully recovered from the race. Focus, calm. But the swirl of embarrassment over her performance ignited a flicker of anger.
“You— You came just to watch me screw up?” Cruz accused, voice low.
Aaliyah’s brow furrowed. “No. I wasn’t trying to— It’s not your fault. You ran well.”
Cruz barked a short laugh. “Yeah, so well I ended in fourth.” She raked a hand through her damp hair. My last meet, and I bombed it.
Aaliyah’s expression tightened with remorse. This is exactly what she feared. “I’m sorry,” she whispered, leaning closer to the fence. “I didn’t mean to distract you.”
Cruz inhaled sharply, anger and hurt swirling. She wanted to demand an explanation for everything: the man, the cold shoulder, the near-kiss that ended in heartbreak. Yet as she opened her mouth, her nerve faltered, replaced by a wave of shame. I can’t do this here.
She glanced around at the milling crowd, her teammates, and the other schools’ athletes. This is a public space. Everyone’s eyes are everywhere. The vulnerability of the moment hit her like a punch.
With a final glare, Cruz turned away. “Just—leave me alone,” she muttered. She strode off, hot tears threatening, leaving Aaliyah behind, gripping the fence as if it might stop her from collapsing.
--
Aaliyah stood frozen, the fence cool against her palms. She hates me. She’d known Cruz was upset with her, but seeing that raw pain up close was a stab to her heart. I almost told her… told her I came for her. The words had hovered on her tongue, unspoken.
She stared after Cruz’s retreating figure, wanting to shout across the grass that she was sorry, that she’d ended things with Ehsan, that she missed her. But pride and fear kept her silent, as did the watchful eyes around them. I can’t unravel all of this in the middle of a track stadium.
Slowly, her grip slackened. She backed away, turning so the crowd wouldn’t see the tears that pricked her eyes. This was a mistake. She’d come hoping for some bridge of understanding, but all she’d done was confirm how deep the rift had become.
She slipped out of the stadium, each step hollow. Even the bright midday sun felt cold against her skin. As she walked to the street, she replayed Cruz’s pained expression. I’m sorry, she repeated in her mind, as if that might reach Cruz somehow.
--
Cruz threaded through the infield, ignoring the inquisitive stares from fellow runners. Bobby eventually caught up, grabbing her arm gently. “Cruz, you all right?”
She shrugged, throat tight. “I just need some space.”
Bobby’s gaze flicked toward the fence line, where Aaliyah had stood. “She left, you know. I saw her slip out.”
Cruz swallowed the lump in her throat. Of course she did. She balled her fists, bitterness swirling with regret. “Good,” she muttered, but the word tasted sour. Why does this still hurt so much?
Bobby let out a sympathetic sigh. “You want to head back to the locker room? Coach is probably waiting.”
Nodding, Cruz moved numbly. Her muscles still burned from the race, but the emotional ache overshadowed any physical discomfort. She kept her eyes down, refusing to dwell on the pitying expressions from onlookers. Next race… oh wait, there is no next race. Her collegiate career had ended, not with a triumphant finish but with a messy swirl of heartbreak.
--
Post-race chaos reigned in the locker rooms as athletes showered, changed, and shared war stories about their events. Cruz moved like a ghost among them, offering half-smiles, barely speaking. Bobby hovered protectively, ensuring no one pressed her about the disappointing finish.
When Coach Joe appeared, gaze stern, Cruz braced for a lecture. But all Joe said was, “Tough day. You fought hard. Don’t beat yourself up.” Then the coach patted Cruz’s shoulder and stepped out.
Cruz slumped onto a bench, forcing air into her lungs. It’s over. She’d messed up her final chance to prove herself. The scholarship, the dorm, everything ended this semester. She had no illusions about professional track, especially not with a mediocre final meet. Guess that’s that.
She changed into casual clothes, a hoodie and sweats. Bobby lingered. “You want to grab something to eat or…?”
Cruz shook her head. “I’ll head back to the dorm and crash.”
Bobby squeezed her arm. “I’m sorry, Cruz. About everything.”
Cruz forced a shaky exhale. “Me too.” She picked up her bag, the exhaustion in her limbs matched by the weight in her heart. As she walked out of the locker room, she couldn’t help thinking of Aaliyah’s face behind that fence—conflicted, sorrowful. I don’t know what to do anymore.
--
Hours later, Aaliyah found herself back in her apartment, the soft glow of evening light filtering through the windows. She sat at her kitchen table, a cup of tea growing cold in front of her. Her phone lay silent beside it—no messages, no calls. Not that I expected any.
She replayed the moment at the fence. The look in Cruz’s eyes, the broken flicker of trust that had once connected them. A tear threatened to slip free, and she blinked it back. I nearly told her I was there for her. But she’d choked, caged by fear and the knowledge of how much she’d already hurt Cruz.
At least I got to see her run, Aaliyah thought sorrowfully, although it brought more pain than closure. The memory of Cruz stumbling mid-race because she’d glanced her way haunted her. “I’m sorry,” she whispered to the empty kitchen. I never meant to ruin this.
Her laptop loomed on the living room desk, dissertation notes open. She considered burying herself in academic work, but the ache in her chest refused to let go. She pressed a hand to her mouth, trembling. I can’t keep doing this.
Yet she saw no path forward. Cruz despised her presence, and Aaliyah had shut down any chance for deeper connection in the name of professionalism. She let the silence wrap around her, the city’s distant hum echoing her isolation. We’re both stuck now.
--
That night, Cruz lay awake in her dorm bed, staring at the ceiling. She’d showered, tried to rest, but her mind replayed every stride of the race, every second of that fateful glance at Aaliyah in the stands. Her chest twisted with regret. I trained so hard. Why couldn’t I just focus?
She knew the answer, though she hated to admit it. Because I still care too much about her. For all her anger and hurt, the sight of Aaliyah still hit her like a javelin to the heart. She rubbed her eyes, exhaustion pressing in. Enough.
Across town, Aaliyah curled up on her couch, reading the same sentence in her dissertation draft for the tenth time. The words blurred, overshadowed by the memory of Cruz’s accusations. Why are you here? The question echoed, and all Aaliyah had wanted to say was Because I can’t stay away.
Both women drifted into fitful sleep, hearts heavy with the consequences of unspoken truths. Each believed they’d only caused the other pain, unsure if any bridge remained or if they’d already burned it beyond repair.