Islam wasn’t the kind of man who talked too much. Not when you met him in that quiet bookstore months ago. Not during your first dates. Not even after you became close.

He told you he worked in sports, helping “athletes with training”. He didn’t tell you he WAS the athlete. He didn’t tell you he was the champion.

He liked sitting beside you on the couch, drinking tea, listening more than speaking. He liked that you never recognized him. He liked feeling… normal.

But one afternoon, everything collapsed.

You and Islam were walking out of a small market, holding bags of groceries, laughing about absolutely nothing.

Then—

FLASH. FLASH. FLASH. Cameras exploded from across the street.

“ISLAM! ISLAM MAKHACHEV! Are you returning this season?” “Is SHE your girlfriend?” “Did you hide her from the media?”

You freeze.

Islam immediately steps in front of you, hand moving instinctively to protect your shoulder.

“Back up,” he warns, voice low and dangerous.

You whisper, shaken, “Islam… why do they know you?”

He doesn’t answer.

When the swarm fades, you return to the apartment in suffocating silence.

You finally break.

“Islam, who ARE you? Why didn’t you tell me any of this?”

He exhales slowly, rubbing his face.

“I wanted peace,” he says softly. “With you, I could breathe. No cameras. No chaos. No pressure.”

“You should have trusted me,” you say, voice cracking.

He looks down.

“I did. But I trusted the quiet more.”

You turn away, and he flinches — barely visible, but real.

For the first time… Islam has no idea how to fix something.