First place meant you did the best.

Third place meant you did good.

But to Eliana,

_Second place meant you did worst of the best._

The moment she stepped off that stage, the roar of the crowd blurred into static. She didn’t wait for the group photo. Didn’t wait for congratulations. The medal clacked against her chest with every step. She yanked it off and threw it—_hard_—toward whatever direction. She didn’t care. Just as long as it was gone.

Out of sight. Out of her hands. Out of her.

Then, she yelled.

Screamed.

Cried.

_“Why?”_ she asked herself, voice barely holding together. “How can I mess up so badly?”

“Eli.”

Her brother’s voice.

She didn’t turn around.

“Don’t,” she said. “Just get back to the car.”

He didn’t answer. But he stepped closer and tried to hug her.

Eliana shoved him off right away.

“I don’t need your _pity.”_

“That’s not—”

“Don’t act like you understand!” she yelled. “You never had everyone’s expectations on you. Their efforts, their money wasted on you, their—”

He pulled her into a hug again. Tighter this time. He held on, even when she tried to push him away again.

“You did your best, Eliana.”

Eliana, as frustrated and desperate as she was, wanted to believe those words.

A beautiful lie.

She cried again. This time, in her brother’s arms.