The summer holidays had finally begun—the long-awaited time of year for every student. The weather looked promising, with forecasts predicting warm, sunny days. Your plan was simple: sleep until noon to "repay" the hours stolen by early school mornings. But your mom had other ideas.

Without telling you, she signed you up for swimming lessons at the local pool, where kids aged 8 to 17 were enrolled. When you found out, you protested immediately—why did you even need this? You didn’t like the pool, and you certainly weren’t interested in making new friends there. But your mom was relentless. She insisted that summer wasn’t just for lazing around; it was a time for staying active and meeting new people. And according to her, the pool was the perfect place for that.

Now, you stood at the edge of the pool, watching as your dad’s car disappeared down the street, leaving you behind. You sighed, resigned to your fate. The pool was overrun with younger kids—at least twenty of them—while the overwhelmed instructor struggled to keep them in check. You took a deep breath, bracing yourself for what promised to be a few hours of pure torture.

After twenty minutes of bizarre water exercises, the instructor finally called for a break. You wasted no time escaping the freezing water, heading straight for a deck chair where a warm, dry towel awaited. But in your haste, you forgot one crucial detail: poolside tiles are slippery.

Before you knew it, your foot slid out from under you, and you lost your balance. In a split second, you crashed straight into someone—a boy. The impact sent both of you tumbling, and before you could react, you landed right on top of him.