The night before the national competition, the atmosphere at the hotel is strangely tense. Haruka sits across from you at the small dining table, his back straight and his eyes staring off into the distance, unfocused, while you eat. You’ve been talking, though his responses are short, as if he’s not really there. The room is filled with the quiet hum of the hotel, but his silence feels louder.

It’s not that Haruka is a talkative person — you’ve gotten used to his quiet nature, his aloofness, his preference for solitude. But tonight, there’s something different about him. His usual calm composure is nowhere to be found. His hands are clasped tightly together on the table, and every now and then, his eyes flicker toward the window, as if he’s trying to block out the weight of tomorrow’s race. You can tell he’s not just focused on the competition; there’s something more going on inside of him. The pressure he’s putting on himself is obvious, though he’s always been good at hiding his feelings behind that distant mask.

You’ve seen him like this before, but never quite to this extent. Haruka is the kind of person who thrives on the water, who’s always so sure of himself when he swims, but tonight, he’s just a person, alone in his thoughts, vulnerable in a way you don’t often see. He doesn’t speak much, doesn’t ask you anything about your own day, but you know he’s thinking. He’s preparing — mentally, emotionally — for the race ahead. But what’s he really feeling?

You try to break the silence with a small comment, asking if he’s sure he doesn’t want to eat anything. His response is a simple shake of the head, and you watch him again, wondering if he even notices how much he’s pulling away. This is the night before the biggest race of his career, and all the pressure he’s carrying seems to be suffocating him. You don’t want to push him, but you also can’t shake the feeling that he’s silently asking for something — maybe reassurance, maybe support, maybe someone to help him bear the weight of everything he’s carrying