The rain wasn't stopping. It wasn't even heavy, just this endless, fine mist that clung to everything, making the track a shimmering, slick ribbon under a sky the color of old dishwater. Every breath was cold, pulling at the insides of my lungs like someone had hooked a tiny fishing line in there. My shins ached, a deep, bone-weary throb that had nothing to do with the actual miles I’d put in today, and everything to do with the phantom pain that still flared, two years later, right at the break point. Two years. Like it was yesterday. The crunch, the cold, the sudden, absolute silence.
Coach Miller had called out sick again, which meant August was ‘supervising.’ August, who ran like he was made of steel cables and quiet determination, not flesh and bone. He stood by the bend, just before the homestretch, arms crossed, the hood of his gray sweatshirt pulled low, obscuring most of his face. He looked less like a teammate and more like some sort of ancient, weathered statue carved directly from the wet, grey afternoon itself. Which was fine. Statues didn’t ask you if you were okay. Statues didn’t look at you with that particular kind of flat, knowing stare that made your stomach clench into a knot tighter than any shoelace.
Another lap. My strides felt heavy, like I was dragging myself through thick mud instead of cutting through thin air. The wet asphalt hissed under my spikes. I could feel the cold seeping into my socks. My vision blurred slightly, not from sweat, but from the sheen of moisture on my eyelashes, or maybe just the sheer effort of trying not to think about… anything. Trying to just run. Just move. But the harder I tried to empty my head, the more the memories rushed in, cold and sharp as the spring wind.
August didn’t move. Not an inch. He just watched, a silent sentinel. I hated it. I hated how I could feel his gaze on my back, even when I was looking straight ahead, focusing on the dark line that marked the lane. It was like a physical weight, pressing down. It made me push harder, which was probably the point, but it also made my chest tighten with something that felt suspiciously like… defiance. Or embarrassment. Or maybe just the kind of frustrated exhaustion that made you want to scream into the endless drizzle until your throat was raw.
My watch beeped. Halfway. Another five miles. My jaw was tight. I imagined the little digital numbers mocking me, ticking away the seconds, the minutes, the two years that felt like forever. I’d lost so much. The scholarship. The dreams. Most of my friends, who didn’t know how to deal with someone who suddenly couldn’t do the one thing that defined him. They’d tried, for a bit. Pizza nights. Video games. But I just… wasn't there. Not really. I was still back on that track, the sound of the crack echoing, the sudden, sharp, white pain.
As I came around the bend again, August pushed off the fence he’d been leaning against. He started to run with me, keeping pace on the outside of my lane. He didn't say anything, just matched my stride. His breathing was even, barely a whisper of sound against the soft shush of the rain. Mine, on the other hand, sounded like a broken bellows, ragged and uneven. It was humiliating, this immediate, visceral comparison. Every time he ran next to me, I felt like a cheap, knocked-off replica of the athlete I used to be. The ‘before’ me.
We ran like that for a full mile. Just the sound of our feet, the rain. His presence was a solid, unyielding thing beside me, a dark shape in my periphery. I wanted to tell him to back off. To go run his own perfect, effortless laps. But the words got stuck, a dry knot in my throat. Every time I glanced over, his eyes were on the track ahead, but I knew he was watching me, measuring. That's what August did. He measured things. Pace. Endurance. The exact moment a person was about to break.
My left calf muscle seized, a sudden, sharp protest. I stumbled, my lead foot skidding on a patch of slick grit. Instantly, August's hand shot out, grabbing my bicep. Not a gentle touch. It was firm, strong, arresting my fall before I could truly go down. The heat of his palm through my wet sleeve was a shock, a sudden, electric jolt against the cold. My breath hitched, a tiny, involuntary sound.
I looked at his hand on my arm, then up at his face. His eyes, usually shadowed by the hood, were clear, the color of moss after a rain. Intense. His lips were pressed into a thin line, no judgment, just… presence. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic, trapped bird. Not just from the near-fall. Something else. The sheer proximity. The raw, unexpected physical contact. It felt like a circuit completed.
“Careful,” he murmured, his voice low, a rough, warm sound against the drumming rain. He didn't release my arm right away. His fingers lingered, a silent question. A promise. My skin prickled where his hand touched. I could feel the faint tremor in my own arm, a reaction to the close call, yes, but also to him. To the way he looked at me, like I was the only thing on this entire sodden track that mattered.
I pulled back, maybe a little too abruptly, shaking my head. "Fine. Just… an ankle roll. Old habit." I tried to laugh, but it came out as a pathetic, breathless puff. My face felt hot, despite the cold. Heat crept up my neck, a blush I couldn't control. God, I was so transparent. Every single damn time. He knew. He always knew.
August just nodded slowly, his gaze still on me, unwavering. He finally dropped his hand, and the sudden absence of his touch left a cold spot, an inexplicable ache. “Hydration,” he said, his voice flat, but with a subtle undercurrent that made me wonder. “You’re losing it.” He wasn’t talking about water, I realized. He was talking about me. About the fight. The will.
“Oh, I know,” I muttered, shoving my hands into the pockets of my running shorts, trying to hide the slight trembling. "Tell me something I don’t." I pushed a hand through my damp hair. It was getting longer, brushing my ears. I hadn't bothered to cut it in months. Small things. Big things. They all piled up, a messy, impossible heap. I didn’t even know what I was running from anymore, or to what. Just running.
He started running again, a steady, measured pace, slightly ahead of me now, but still in my lane. It was an invitation. A challenge. He wasn't giving up on me, not yet. Not like everyone else had. It was infuriating. It was… everything. The way his shoulders moved, strong and fluid, under the wet fabric of his sweatshirt. The slight bounce in his stride, so different from my own heavy, hesitant steps. He was all controlled power, a force of nature. I was… well, I was me.
A flash of green caught my eye – a lone daffodil, impossibly bright, pushed up through a crack in the concrete near the fence. A tiny, defiant burst of color in all this grey. It made me think of the stupid jokes my dad used to make about ‘springing into action.’ My dad. He loved spring. The way everything started fresh. New. Before… before the crash. Before the silence.
Another lap. My breathing settled a little, finding a ragged rhythm. Maybe it was August running in front, setting the pace, drawing me along. Or maybe it was the memory of his hand, a ghost on my arm. My legs still ached, but the phantom pain in my shin had dulled to a distant hum. I focused on the green daffodil, on the steady, rhythmic swing of August’s arms. Just put one foot in front of the other. That’s what Dad always said.
He picked up the pace, subtly, barely noticeable, but enough that I had to stretch to keep up. My chest burned. My lungs screamed. I could taste iron at the back of my throat. This was it. This was the wall. The moment where I usually gave up, told myself it wasn't worth it, told myself I was broken. But August was there, just a few feet ahead, a solid, unwavering presence. His steady pace was a lifeline, pulling me forward.
We rounded the last bend. The finish line, an imaginary spot in my head, seemed impossibly far away. My legs felt like lead. But I kept running. My gaze fixed on August’s back, on the strong line of his shoulders, the way the wet fabric clung to him. I hated him for making me feel this, for pushing me, for seeing through all my carefully constructed walls. And I… I needed him to keep doing it.
He slowed, just slightly, letting me draw almost level. His head turned, just a fraction. Our eyes met. A silent acknowledgement. A shared breath. His expression was still unreadable, but there was a flicker there, something warm and intense that made my entire body hum. A small, almost imperceptible curve of his lips. He was smiling. Or something close to it. And then, he looked away, accelerating, leaving me to chase his shadow through the persistent, biting cold.