08.02 TOM – Hloubka ticha 16.7. v 06:00 – 00:30

„I know more than you think,“ he says, and his voice is suddenly softer. Almost as if… as if he felt sorry for me. And that pisses me off even more.

„Don't piss me off,“ I growl and take a step back. „Just don't piss me off.“

„Tom,“ he says and reaches out a hand. No. No. No. He mustn't touch me. If he touches me, then…

„Everything okay?“ Jakub's voice rings out behind us. His voice is razor-sharp.

„You got a problem?“

„No,“ I say quickly. Too quickly. „No problem.“

"Get your asses to the showers," Jakub says, his gaze jumping between us. "And you two – next time, focus on swimming, not on each other. Clear?"

"Clear," I say, and feel my cheeks burning. Fuck. Does Jakub know? Does he see it? Does everyone see it?

Viktor just nods and then turns to me. "You can't run from it forever," he says quietly, just for me. "You can't outrun yourself."

And then he leaves. Just like that. Leaves me standing there with the feeling like someone punched me in the stomach. With the feeling like I'm drowning, even though I'm standing on dry land.

I go to the showers and turn the cold water on myself. I hope it washes away what I feel. I hope it washes away the guilt from what I did to Veronika. I hope it washes away the confusion I have inside because of Viktor.

But the water washes nothing away. Cleans nothing. Changes nothing.

Because Viktor is right. I can't outrun myself. No matter how fast I swim.

I rest my forehead against the cold tile and close my eyes. The water streams down my back and I wish I could just disappear. Dissolve in that water. Become part of something bigger. Something simpler.

But life isn't simple. And I know that. I've known it ever since I first saw Viktor. Ever since I first felt him close to me. Ever since I first felt that… that something I can't name. That I don't want to name.

Because once I name it, it becomes real. And I'm not ready for reality. I'm not ready for the truth.

So instead, I keep swimming. I keep running away. I keep pretending that what I feel is hatred. That what's tightening in my chest when I see him is anger.

Deep down, though, I know I'm lying to myself. And that lie is destroying me more than any truth ever could.

I turn off the water and lean against the wall. Breathing. Just breathing. And I try not to think of his eyes. His voice. His words.

“You can't run from yourself.”

And at that moment I know he is right. I know that no matter what I do, no matter where I hide, that truth will find me. The truth that waits beneath the surface. The truth that waits in the depth of silence.

The wooden bench thuds as Viktor drops his bag.

I start. I don't turn around, but I feel him behind my back like an electrical discharge. I know exactly where he is standing, how he is breathing, how many steps divide us. This is no coincidence. It can't be. The showers were empty, the whole locker room was empty until I crawled in here.

“If you cross my path one more time…” he begins, but doesn't finish.

That sentence hangs between us like a stripped wire. We both know what happened last time.

I see it before my eyes again – his back pressed against the wall, my fist in his stomach, his surprised exhale. And then that look. That look of his, which wasn't terrified, but… disappointed.

I slam the locker door so hard the whole row rattles.

"Don't talk to me, creep."

The word creep shoots out of me like a poisoned arrow. I know it hits him. I know it hurts him. And I want it to hurt. Because if it hurts him, it won't hurt me. If he's the one doing the hating, I won't have to feel.

The metal clatters and drops of water drip from the pipes above us. Drip-drop. Drip-drop. As if someone were measuring the time that has frozen between us.

I'm not turning around. I can't. I don't want to see his face. I don't want to see what I've done. What I've messed up.

"I didn't mean to..." he starts again, but his voice is quiet, uncertain.

"Shut up," I interrupt him. "Just shut up."

I can't listen to him. I can't think. Everything inside me is clenched like a fist. Hatred? Fear? Guilt? I don't know what it is, but it's suffocating me.

„Stretching, five minutes!“ Jakub roars from the hallway, his voice bouncing off the tiles.

Neither of us moves. As if we were frozen in time. As if we were both waiting to see who would flinch first. Who would break that invisible chain holding us in place.

I turn around. I can't help it. I need to see him. I need to know what he's thinking, what he's feeling.

Viktor is standing by the locker opposite, towel gripped in his hand so tight his knuckles are white. His face is like a mask—pale, taut, with eyes that look as though someone poured lead into them. Heavy, dark, full of something I can't read. I've never seen anyone so locked up inside themselves. As if he had shrunk entirely inward, as if bracing for a blow he knows is coming.

Something inside me breaks. Something small, fragile, that I didn't even know was there.

“I…” I start, but the words get stuck in my throat. What do I want to say? What can I say? I'm sorry I beat you up? I'm sorry I called you a pervert? I'm sorry I let you down?

I'm sorry I can't deal with what you bring out in me?

Instead, I just stand there, barely catching my breath. My chest tightens as if a ton of bricks were lying on it. I don't step back, but I don't move closer either. We're frozen in this moment, in this locker room, with that hum of hatred thrumming in our chests.

The buzzing of the fluorescent light overhead sounds like mockery. As if even those fucking lights know what a coward I am. What a hypocrite I am.

“You're going to be late,” Viktor says finally, and his voice is strangely flat. Devoid of emotion. As if he'd turned off everything he feels. As if he'd locked himself away in a fortress where I can't reach him.

“You too,” I reply automatically.

“I don't care,” he shrugs. “I'm not the one fighting for a scholarship.”

Those words sting. He's right. I need that scholarship. I need a good performance. I need the coach to praise me, to nominate me, to be the best.

I need all of that, because without it I'm nobody. Without it, I'm just a kid who takes care of his sick mom and steals food so they have something to eat.

"Save the crap," I growl, but there's no strength in it. There's no conviction.

Viktor takes a step closer and I automatically step back. Not out of fear. Not out of hatred. But because when he's close, I can't think. I can't breathe. I can't do anything except feel his presence like an electrical discharge in every cell of my body.

„Why are you doing this?“ she asks quietly. „Why are you talking to me like this? Why do you hate me?“

Because it's easier to hate you than to admit what I really feel, I want to say. Because when I hate you, I don't have to be afraid. I don't have to doubt. I don't have to ask what it all means.

Instead, I remain silent. I look into his eyes and see something in them that terrifies me. I see understanding. As if he knew exactly what is running through my head. As if he were reading my thoughts, my fears, my secrets.

„Fuck off,“ I say finally, because I don't know what else to say. I don't know how else to defend myself.

Viktor smiles, but it's not a happy smile. It's the smile of someone who just got the answer he expected, but didn't dare to hope for.

"Fine," he nods. "I'm out of here. But you know what, Tom? One day you're going to have to stop hiding. One day you're going to have to stop lying to yourself."

He turns around, grabs his bag and leaves. Just like that. Leaving me standing there with the feeling as if someone had driven a knife between my ribs and was slowly twisting it.

I sink onto the bench and bury my face in my hands. What the fuck is wrong with me? Why am I doing this? Why do I hate him? Why do I want to hate him?

I know why. Deep down inside, I know. But I can't admit it. I can't say it. I can't even think it.

Because if it were true... if what I'm feeling were what I think I'm feeling... what would that make me? Who would I be?