I already knew this run would go wrong.

  That certainty sat in my chest before I even stepped onto the track.

  The mood I carried wasn’t light.

  Words that never reached each other, a name that wasn’t mine, a reminder that no matter how clearly I thought, I still sounded like a horse to everyone else.

  Still, I moved forward.

  The track opened ahead of me, wide and silent.

  Grass trimmed low, the path curving in shallow bends.

  I inhaled, slow and deep, forcing focus into a body that didn’t listen the way it used to.

  'Just walk faster. Read the turn. Don’t rush.'

  That was the plan.

  But sight betrayed me first.

  A horse’s vision wasn’t built for what lay directly ahead.

  My eyes caught the curve, the stretch beyond, but the space in front of my face was a blind promise.

  I knew there were obstacles.

  I knew there would be a jump.

  But I just couldn’t see it.

  I picked up speed anyway, hooves thudding unevenly, weight shifting to compensate for the missing limb.

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  The turn drew closer.

  I tracked it.

  Adjusted my angle.

  And then—

  Impact.

  Wood met bone with a blunt crack.

  Pain flared hot and immediate, ripping the breath from my lungs.

  I cried out before I could stop myself, the sound raw and animal.

  “Damn it—!”

  The obstacle hadn’t moved.

  I staggered, legs scrambling to recover.

  My front limb twitched on instinct, reaching for support that didn’t exist.

  Frustration surged, sharp and ugly, mixing with the ache spreading through my chest.

  "So... this is it."

  The part no one talks about.

  The rage.

  “I didn’t even see it!” I snarled, voice breaking into a useless whinny. “How am I supposed to jump what I can’t see?!”

  The pain fed the panic.

  As a human, panic froze me.

  As a horse—

  My body chose flight.

  I bolted.

  The world blurred.

  Wind tore past my ears as I surged forward, speed stealing thought.

  Another barrier clipped my side.

  Wood splintered.

  A marker pole snapped under my shoulder.

  I didn’t slow. I couldn’t.

  Then something yanked hard at my head.

  The force dragged me down and sideways, sharp and undeniable.

  My remaining front leg skidded into the grass, momentum bleeding out in a rough slide.

  I stumbled, nearly fell, heart hammering so loud it drowned everything else.

  “Easy—easy! That’s it. Calm down.”

  Hands pressed against my back.

  Firm and steady.

  Not restraining.... grounding.

  “Easy, friend. I’ve got you.”

  My breaths came fast, shallow.

  My muscles shook, wired with leftover fear.

  But the hand stayed, rubbing slow circles along my spine.

  I hadn’t known how sensitive it was there.

  The tension leaked out, inch by inch.

  The trainer stood close now, sweat darkening his collar, his grip still wrapped around the rein.

  He exhaled, long and heavy, then rested a hand on his knee.

  “…That’s enough for today.”

  No anger. No disappointment.

  Just certainty.

  “I’ll report your progress. Same as always.”

  Progress.

  The word settled strangely in my chest.

  I lowered my head, breathing evening out, the ache dulling into a reminder instead of a scream.

  The track lay ahead, obstacles still standing, untouched by my effort.

  This was my first failure.

  Clear. Undeniable.

  And as the trainer led me away, one thought followed, sharper than the pain had been.

  If this was how my body reacted to fear—

  What would happen next time I faced it on purpose?