From A Producer To A Chapter 439: Luna...2

Chapter 439: Luna...2

The noise doesn’t drop when he looks away.

It keeps moving. People talking. Shoes scraping against concrete. A whistle sowhere to the left. Soone laughing too loud. The air thick with heat and expectation.

But he’s still looking in that direction.

Not even fully aware of anything or anyone around him he gaze....

Just... fixed there.

The spot where she stood.

Where he’s sure she stood.

His fingers flex once at his side. Slow. Controlled. Like he’s reminding himself where he is.

"—yo."

Nothing.

"Dayo."

A hand taps his arm.

He blinks bringing his mind back to his thought.

Jeffrey is right there, already half turned toward the entrance, energy still bouncing off him like he hasn’t learned how to contain it yet.

"Bro, we’re moving."

Dayo nods once. But doesn’t move imdiately.

Jeffrey studies him now. The way his eyes are just a little too still. The delay.

"You good?"

"Yeah."

Dayo answered too quick unlike the calm reply he gave which ca out weird.

Jeffrey doesn’t buy it. You can see it in the slight tilt of his head, the way his brows pull in just a little.

"You froze back there."

Dayo exhales through his nose. Looks past him, not at him.

"I didn’t freeze."

"You did."

He paused a beat.

"That’s not you."

Dayo finally looks at him. Not sharp. Not defensive. Just... asured.

"I’m fine."

Jeffrey holds his gaze a second longer, like he’s deciding whether to push it. Then the noise around them shifts again officials calling, athletes moving, bodies closing in and the mont breaks on its own.

"Let’s go," Dayo says, already stepping forward.

Jeffrey falls in beside him, still watching him from the corner of his eye.

They move with the flow now. Athletes funneling toward the preparation area. The air changes as they step through the entrance—cooler, more contained, less noise but more tension.

Dayo glances back once.

Quick.

Instinctive.

The crowd is a blur now. Faces folding into each other, colors shifting. Movent everywhere.

She’s not there.

Or he can’t see her.

His jaw tightens just a fraction.

Did I imagine it?

No.

He knows what he saw clearly.

The way she stood. The way she didn’t move when everything else was moving. The way—

He looks away.

Keeps walking trying to calm himself during the process.

—

Inside, it’s quieter, but not calm.

Benches lined along the walls. Bags dropped. Towels, water bottles, headphones. Athletes in different states of focus so pacing, so stretching, so sitting with their heads down like they’re already in the race.

Dayo drops his bag without really looking at where it lands.

An official steps forward, clipboard in hand.

"Alright, listen up."

Voices fade. Movent slows.

"First call events are in fifteen. Make sure you’re ready. We’ll go through standard procedures now."

Dayo leans back against the bench, arms loose at his sides.

"Keep the race clean. No false starts. You know the rules one warning, then you’re out. Stay in your lanes, follow through the finish."

"You are not newbies in the ga so of you are Olympic Champion, World champions and so of you don’t have any silverware but here is a chance to do that in this competition so go ahead and do what you have been training for. "

He nods when others nod.

At the right monts.

Looks forward when everyone else is looking forward.

But the words don’t stick.

They pass through him.

Fragnts.

False start... stay in your lane... follow through...

He shifts his weight slightly, rolling his shoulders back.

There’s a flicker again.

Not in front of him this ti.

Inside.

That sa image.

Her.

He presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek. Grounds himself there.

Breath in.

Out.

The official keeps talking.

"...questions?"

No one answers.

"Good. Be ready."

The group breaks apart.

Noise returns in low waves. Zippers. Footsteps. Quiet conversations.

Dayo bends, opens his bag, pulls out his gear. Movents automatic. Familiar.

He doesn’t rush.

But there’s no real presence in it either.

"Hey."

He looks up.

Coach Matthew is standing a few feet away, arms folded, watching him.

Not loud. Not calling attention.

Just... there.

Dayo straightens slightly.

"Coach."

Matthew steps closer. Stops just in front of him.

"What’s wrong?"

No buildup. No soft entry.

Dayo huffs a small breath, almost a laugh, but not quite.

"Nothing."

Matthew doesn’t react to that.

Just keeps looking at him.

Dayo looks away first.

"Just... saw soone I didn’t expect to see."

That’s all he gives.

Matthew studies him for a second longer, then nods once.

Doesn’t ask who.

Doesn’t ask why.

"Control what’s in front of you."

Simple.

Flat.

Dayo nods.

"I know."

Matthew’s tone shifts just a little. Firr now.

"You’ve done this too long to lose your head over anything off the track keep up your track record the whole world is watching the Olympics dalist after a while so don’t....."

Dayo’s jaw sets, but he nods again.

"I’m not losing my head."

"Good."

A beat.

"Because you don’t need

to remind you what happens when you do."

Dayo exhales, slower this ti.

"I won’t ss this up."

Matthew holds his gaze, asuring it.

Then a short nod.

"Get ready."

He steps back, already turning toward another athlete.

Dayo watches him go for half a second, then drops his eyes.

Hands on his knees.

Breath in.

Out.

Again.

He pushes off the bench.

—

Back outside, the sound hits harder.

The crowd has grown. Word has spread. People standing now, leaning over rails, pointing, calling out nas.

So of them louder when they see him.

"Dayo!"

"Yo—he’s here!"

"I thought he wasn’t competing!"

Phones up. Screens flashing.

He doesn’t react.

Just walks.

Jeffrey is beside him again, energy back up, but more controlled now.

"You hearing that?"

Dayo glances at him.

"Hearing what?"

Jeffrey grins, a little breathless.

"They didn’t even know you were racing."

Dayo shrugs.

"Doesn’t matter."

Jeffrey lets out a short laugh.

"Yeah, okay. Doesn’t matter."

But there’s pride in it. You can hear it under the words.

They move toward the track.

Dayo’s eyes scan again.

Automatic.

Rows of faces. Movent. Colors shifting.

No still point.

No anchor.

She’s not there.

Or she’s sowhere he can’t see.

That sa feeling settles again.

Not relief.

Not panic.

Just... unfinished.

He exhales slowly and rolls his neck once.

Focus.

—

"First call, fifty ters!"

The announcent cuts through everything.

Athletes start moving toward the blocks.

Dayo steps forward, the world narrowing just a little now.

This part is familiar.

This part doesn’t change.

He crouches at his lane. Adjusts the blocks with practiced ease. Hands steady.

The noise fades.

Not completely.

But enough.

He sets his feet.

Flexes his fingers once.

Breath in.

Out.

The official raises the gun.

"Set."

He leans forward.

Weight balanced.

Everything tight.

Everything ready.

For a split second—

A flicker.

Her again.

Standing there.

Looking at him.

His reaction cos just a fraction late.

The gun cracks.

He moves.

Fast.

Still faster than everyone else.

But he feels it.

That tiny delay.

That slight catch.

It’s gone in the next second, his body taking over, driving forward, strokes strong, aggressive, pushing through the water with controlled force.

He finishes clean.

Touches first.

No question.

The noise slams back in.

Loud.

Sharp.

People on their feet.

"He’s back!"

"Still got it!"

Phones up again, capturing everything.

Dayo pulls himself up, water running off his shoulders, breath steady but deeper than it should be.

He doesn’t look at the crowd.

Walks to the side.

Looks up at the board.

The ti flashes.

Strong.

Better than most.

But not his best.

Not close enough.

He stares at it for a second longer than necessary.

Then nods once.

Small.

Like he’s acknowledging it to himself.

Jeffrey is already there when he steps off.

"Bro—"

Grinning.

"You smoked that."

Dayo gives a slight smile.

"Yeah."

"That wasn’t even close."

"Mm."

Jeffrey’s smile lingers, then fades just a bit as he watches him.

"You don’t look like you just won."

Dayo grabs a towel, runs it over his face.

"I did win."

"That’s not what I said."

Dayo lowers the towel, looks at him.

"I’m good."

Jeffrey exhales, half laugh, half frustration.

"You keep saying that."

"And I an it."

A beat.

Jeffrey studies him again, like he’s trying to decide whether to keep pushing.

Then he shakes his head slightly.

"Alright."

He steps back.

"But you’re not done yet."

Dayo nods.

"I know."

Jeffrey’s energy shifts again, back toward himself now.

"Because I’m coming for that next one."

There’s a grin again. Lighter this ti.

Dayo smirks.

"Focus on your lane."

Jeffrey points at him.

"I am. You just happen to be in it."

Dayo lets out a short breath through his nose. Not quite a laugh, but close.

Jeffrey walks off, still talking, still moving, still alive in it.

Dayo stays where he is for a second.

Towel in his hands.

He closes his eyes briefly.

Breath in.

Out.

Shoulders roll back.

Again.

He opens his eyes.

Looks out at the crowd one more ti.

Still doesn’t see her.

But the feeling doesn’t leave.

It just sits there.

Quiet.

Waiting.

And for the first ti in a long while—

He knows it.

He’s not fully in control.