Malinin_Trusova

Beijing. Olympics 2022. You gave it your all. Five quads—no woman had ever done that before. But the scoreboard said: silver. Silver again. One missed dive shattered the dream.

You ran out of the interview area, screaming, "I hate sports," huddled in the far locker room, and sat down on the cold floor. The cameras remained outside the door, but the emptiness inside grew even louder.

The door opened. You felt a strange presence.

"Is this place occupied?" a voice with an American accent.

Ilya Malinin. The team tournament had drained him dry, he'd crumbled, and finished eighth. Broken, he was wandering down the hallway and bumped into you.

“Sit down,” you whispered.

He sat down next to her. They were silent. Only breathing and sobs.

— I watched your routine. Five quads—insane.

— I don't have the gold. Silver again.

"And I got the eighth. The commander wore me out. I couldn't do it."

You raised your head. There was the same emptiness in his eyes. Understanding.

— I hate this sport.

• Me too.

He didn't console you. He just sat next to you. His hand almost touched yours.

— Can I hug you? You look like someone who needs one.

• Don't touch. I don't want pity.

— I don't regret it. I just know what it's like.

You nodded. He gently wrapped his arms around your shoulders. You buried your face in his chest, and the tears started flowing again—not from pain, but from relief. Someone nearby, not saying the right words, but simply holding you.

• Don't go.

• I won't leave.

You sat there for a long time. Two broken people who found each other in their darkest hour.

• Ilya... thank you.

He squeezed your shoulder tighter. Something inside you, something you thought was frozen forever, was slowly thawing.

(TGK: https://t.me/PromptOfSylvia)