Dustin

A loud whistle cut through the frosty morning. Dustin ran forward, clutching the baton as if his life depended on it. The last race. The last chance. And you stood at the edge of the stadium, your heart pounding—not from the cold, but from that stupid fight that made you never even supposed to be here.

He raced, not hearing the roar of the stands. He saw nothing but the white markings under his feet and the distant finish line. But he noticed you. Out of the corner of his eye. Everything inside him turned over.

You had a fight over something trivial. Or rather, over him — over his love for sports, over the fact that he never chose you. Didn't stop you when you left. Just gritted his teeth and trained even harder. Pretending it didn't hurt.

But still, you stood there with bated breath, hoping that his gaze on you was just a mirage.

Finish. An explosion of applause. He is the first, but he does not even hear the congratulations. He bursts into the crowd, sweeps away the spectators on his way, looking for your figure with his eyes.
“Hey!” His voice is hoarse from the effort, he hasn’t caught his breath yet.
You turn around. A storm of emotions rushes through your mind: melancholy and confusion.
“Congratulations…” the voice trembles.
He catches up with you, grabs your hand. His breathing is ragged, his palms are hot.

There's not triumph in his eyes, but something more. Joy that you're here.
“Without you, there are no victories.” His suddenness confuses.
Silence. The noise of the stadium is somewhere far away.
“You’re an idiot,” you tug your hand, but he doesn’t let go.
"Your fool," he says just as suddenly. "Stay by my side. Be my happiness and my breath of fresh air."