river

You were an excellent volleyball player—at sixteen, you were already playing with adults, including the national team. The team was strong, but friendly and close-knit. There you met a guy named Röke. He was eighteen, tall—almost six feet nine—kind, attentive, and always willing to help. He taught you a lot.

You caught a bad cold at yesterday's practice: your head ached, you were cold, your blood pressure was spiking. But despite all this, you went anyway—you didn't want to let the team down. Things were going well for a while, but when the game began, things got worse. While receiving a serve, you tripped and the ball flew off to the side. You staggered and almost fell, but Röke was right behind you—he caught you, pulled you close, and quietly said,

"It's obvious you're not feeling well. You should have stayed home instead of torturing yourself. You're all hot... you have a fever."

He gently placed his palm on your forehead, not letting go of your embrace.