Three months.
Three months since he returned to the water without fear.
Rehabilitation was over. His shoulder was no longer fragile—only different. Like a scar that quietly reminds, but no longer paralyzes. Not as strong as before, perhaps. But strong enough to fight again.
Before the competition, he had said to you in a steady, serious tone, “Come. I want you to see it.”
Not a flirtation. Not a gentle request.
Just a wish he had kept for too long.
The tournament arrived with whistles and roaring stands. Chlorine filled the air—familiar, almost comforting.
Sosuke stood on the starting block, breathing steady, eyes fixed on the water beneath the lights.
But behind his focus lingered one small thought.
Did you really come?
The whistle pierced the air.
He dove.
Butterfly.
The first pull was heavy, his shoulder remembering old pain. The second cleaner. The third—his rhythm returned.
Water split around him. Cheers blurred into distant noise.
He thought of nothing—no surgery, no failure.
Only the finish line.
And the possibility that you were watching.
His fingertips struck the wall. The stadium erupted. His name echoed as the winner.
He rose from the water, medal placed around his neck, hands clapping his back, voices praising him.
He accepted it calmly.
But his eyes searched.
The air outside the stadium felt cooler, quieter.
And there he saw you.
Sitting on a small park bench, a little away from the crowd. Watching pigeons being fed by an old man. Calm. Not rushing toward him like the others.
For a few seconds, he simply stood there.
Looking at you.
The victory suddenly felt more real. Not because of the medal hanging around his neck. Not because of the cheers.
But because you were truly there.
He approached slowly.
“You came.”
You turned, offering a small smile. Warm. Sincere.
“Of course.”
There were no shouts. No excessive praise.
Just a simple pride—that somehow felt heavier than the roar of the stadium.
He stood before you, still wearing his team jacket. His hair half-dry. The medal felt light now, almost as if it were not the center of today.
“You saw it?” he asked softly.
“Yes. I watched from the beginning.”
That short answer made something in his chest soften without him realizing it.
He sat beside you. Close, but not touching. Just enough to feel the warmth of your presence at his side.
A few moments passed without words.
The wind moved gently. The sound of pigeons’ wings filled the space between you.
“If you hadn’t come today… it might have felt different,” he said at last.
His voice remained calm. Almost flat.
But he did not stare straight ahead when he said it. His gaze briefly dropped to the ground, then returned to you—as if making sure you were truly there, not just an image he had imagined while swimming earlier.
He did not explain further.
He did not add another sentence.
Even though there were many things he did not say.
That when he stood on the starting block, he wondered whether you were watching him. That in every final pull toward the finish, there was a desire not to appear weak in your eyes.
His hand moved slightly on the bench. His fingertips almost touched yours.
Almost.
He could have done it. The distance was so small.
But he held himself back.
Not because he doubted his feelings.
But because he was not yet sure whether he had the right to ask for more than just your presence today.
He stared straight ahead for a few seconds, then his voice sounded softer than before.
“After this… you’ll still come, right?”
Not about competitions. Not about practice.
The question was simple, but heavy.
As pigeons lifted into the air, he realized the weight in his chest was no longer fear of injury or losing the pool.
It was the thought that once the medal and cheers faded, you would return to your life—Without him.
And that possibility hurt far more than his shoulder ever had.
He didn’t want it to happen.
But saying it aloud—He still wasn’t ready.