Ayesha Rao
Part 1: The First Dive
The pool was colder than she had expected.
Zoya Narang stood at the edge, staring into the shimmering blue, her toes curled against the tile. The whistle had already blown. Others had dived. But she hesitated. Not because she didn’t know how to swim—Zoya could glide like a whisper—but because this was the national camp, and those lanes held sharks in Speedos.
A drop of water slid from her temple to her lips. Chlorine. Fear. And something more.
“Jump, wild card.”
The voice came from behind her—low, amused, and irritatingly familiar.
Zoya didn’t need to turn. She had already Googled every swimmer in the camp before coming here.
Arjun Malhotra.
India’s pride. Three golds. A face that lived on magazine covers. And the arrogance of someone who believed water bent around him.
Zoya didn’t respond. She pushed off the block and sliced into the water.
It was quieter underneath. No sarcasm, no eyes, just the rhythm of arms and legs and lungs that burned with every pull. She let herself forget where she was. For a moment, she was ten again, racing her shadow in the municipal pool in Lucknow. Her father’s voice echoing, “Faster, Zoya. You’re not a leaf—you’re lightning.”
But memories don’t win medals.
She reached the other end last. Not by much, but enough to get noticed.
Arjun was already there, watching, hair slicked back, arms resting on the lane ropes like he owned them.
“Your entry was delayed by at least two seconds,” he said. “In this camp, that’s the difference between a national swimmer and a nobody.”
Zoya wiped water from her eyes. “Do you give free advice to everyone, or am I just lucky?”
His smirk didn’t fade. “Only to those who show potential and stupidity in equal measure.”
Coach Raghavan blew the second whistle. “Round two. This time, no drama.”
Zoya took her place again. This time, she didn’t wait.
She dived in first.
And when she surfaced, she was just behind Arjun. Just one stroke. But enough to earn a nod from Coach.
“Better,” he said.
Later, in the changing room, her arms trembled. She had pushed too hard. Her muscles weren’t used to the intensity, the eyes, the pressure. This wasn’t her home pool. No cheap locker smells. No cheering kids. This was a machine built to create champions—and break the rest.
She opened her locker to find a sticky note.
“It wasn’t bad. Try keeping up.” —A.M.
Zoya crumpled the note and smiled despite herself.
That night, the dorm was loud with excitement. Someone had snuck in chips. Another was playing Arijit Singh on a Bluetooth speaker. But Zoya stayed quiet on her bunk, knees pulled close, notebook open. She wasn’t writing—just staring at the blank page.
She had been here less than twelve hours and already Arjun Malhotra had entered her bloodstream like caffeine. Fast, exhilarating, and probably harmful in the long run.
She had read about him in interviews. He trained alone. Spoke little. Slept less. Dated no one. But in person, he was more—more sarcastic, more intense, more real.
And he had noticed her.
At 5:30 AM, the second day began with the pool lights flickering on. Fog rolled over the surface like a secret.
Zoya was the first one in.
She had to prove it wasn’t luck. That she belonged. That wild cards can be wildfires.
By the time others arrived, she had already swum 20 laps. Her arms were burning. But her heart was steady. Focused. Hungry.
Arjun entered last. Hoodie on. Earphones in. He didn’t look at her. Not once.
That annoyed her.
Coach clapped once. “Today, pairs.”
Zoya was paired with Arjun.
Of course.
“Try not to drown me,” he said as they stood on the same starting block.
“Only if you try not to flirt mid-lap.”
That earned the smallest lift of his eyebrow.
They dived together. Swam together. And for four minutes, Zoya forgot to be scared. Arjun wasn’t graceful—he was aggressive, cutting the water like a knife. She followed, matched him turn for turn. Her lungs screamed. Her legs thrashed. But she kept going.
They finished. Coach blew the whistle.
“Good sync. Didn’t expect that.”
Zoya looked at Arjun. He was already climbing out of the pool, water streaming down his back.
“Not bad,” he said, without turning.
It wasn’t a compliment. It was a dare.
That evening, she found a second note in her locker.
“Pain means progress. Let it hurt.” —A.M.
Zoya didn’t smile this time.
Because she had woken up with her calf muscle in a spasm, her knuckles sore, and her eyes burning.
But she also knew this: she was bleeding into the water. And she wasn’t afraid of the blue anymore.
She was becoming it.
Part 2: Lap After Lap
Zoya Narang had never hated water. But today, she could feel it pushing back.
By the third day at camp, her body had become a map of complaints—aching shoulders, knees that clicked, lungs that never seemed to fill enough. And yet, she was still there. In lane four. Ten seconds behind Arjun Malhotra.
Coach Raghavan’s whistle split the silence like a slap. “Again!”
Zoya blinked the sting from her eyes and turned. She was panting, chest rising like broken tides. But she didn’t protest. No one did.
Around her, the other swimmers moved like machines. She had begun to notice things—one girl always hummed before diving, a boy on lane two chewed his lip mid-lap, another coughed into his elbow to hide fatigue. Everyone was hiding something. Pain, fear, pressure. Zoya was hiding, too—her panic attacks, her father’s voice in her head, the constant threat of failure.
But Arjun—he wasn’t hiding.
He swam like he had something to prove. Not to the world, but to himself. Like each lap was a punishment. A ritual. A memory he couldn’t forget.
“Zoya!”
Coach’s voice jolted her back. “Pick up pace or pack your bag.”
She bit her lip, nodded, and dove again.
The water embraced her with indifference. She kicked harder, pulled stronger. Lap after lap, she began to match the rhythm. Her pain flattened. The pool became her only world. Soundless. Solitary. Safe.
When she surfaced, she realized she had tied with Arjun. Same second. Same breath.
He was already out, toweling his hair. But he looked at her—just for a second. No words. Just something unreadable in his eyes.
Later, in the locker room, she stared at herself in the mirror. Her eyes were red. Her cheekbone had a faint bruise from hitting the lane divider. But her posture was taller.
Zoya Narang had survived Day Three.
That evening, the camp organized a team dinner at the mess hall. Plates of boiled vegetables, brown rice, and soup mocked any hope of comfort food. But people were laughing, teasing, swapping training horror stories. For once, it felt like a normal evening.
Zoya sat in a corner with her tray, listening.
Arjun walked in late, as usual. Hoodie, track pants, quiet confidence. He picked up his food and scanned the room. His eyes stopped on her. Then he walked over and sat across from her without a word.
Zoya blinked. “Did the cool kids’ table kick you out?”
He didn’t smile. “I like quiet.”
“You talk a lot for someone who likes quiet.”
He ignored that. “You improved today.”
She raised an eyebrow. “That almost sounds like a compliment.”
“It’s not. It’s a fact.”
She chewed slowly. “You always this charming, or is this your polite setting?”
“I don’t do polite.”
Zoya put down her spoon. “Then why are you sitting with me?”
A long pause. He looked at her, eyes dark and unreadable.
“Because you don’t look at me like the others do,” he said finally. “You’re not trying to impress me. Or hate me. You’re just… watching.”
Zoya was caught off guard. She hadn’t expected honesty. Especially not from him.
“And you’re used to being the center of the storm,” she said softly. “Must be strange when someone doesn’t care.”
His eyes flickered. “It’s not that you don’t care. You just care differently.”
They sat in silence for a while. For the first time, it wasn’t uncomfortable.
Then he stood up. “4 AM. Be at the pool. No one else. Just us.”
Zoya frowned. “Why?”
He leaned in slightly. His voice dropped. “You want to win, don’t you?”
She didn’t answer. But her heart was already saying yes.
The next morning, the pool lights hadn’t even turned on when Zoya arrived. The air was sharp. The water steel grey. She shivered.
Arjun was already in the water, cutting clean strokes across the pool like it owed him something.
She watched for a minute, then slipped in silently.
They swam. No whistle. No coach. Just the echo of each other’s rhythm. Lap after lap. No words.
At the edge, she paused, panting. “Is this your idea of mentoring?”
He shook water from his hair. “No. This is my idea of breaking you in.”
She raised an eyebrow. “Excuse me?”
“You’re too tense. Your arms lock mid-stroke. You breathe like you’re apologizing for existing.”
“That’s a new one,” she said, dryly.
He moved closer. Not touching, but close enough that the air shifted.
“Swim like you own the water,” he said. “Not like you’re asking permission.”
Zoya stared at him. “Is that how you swim?”
“No,” he said. “I swim like I’m running from something.”
The silence was thick.
She looked away. “And does it ever stop chasing you?”
He didn’t answer.
Back at the dorm, Zoya couldn’t sleep. Her muscles were jelly. But her mind raced.
Why had he chosen her?
Why was he helping?
Or was this some twisted game?
The next day during warm-up, Coach called her aside. “You’ve improved. But you’re still rough on turns. Arjun’s helping you?”
She nodded.
Coach grunted. “Good. Just don’t fall for his drama. He’s brilliant, but he breaks everything he touches. Especially himself.”
Zoya said nothing.
But something had already shifted.
She wasn’t swimming just for herself anymore. She was swimming toward something. Or someone. Or maybe into something far more dangerous.
And every lap was a thread pulling her deeper.
Part 3: Underwater Eyes
Zoya Narang was getting faster.
Not the kind of speed that made headlines or drew gasps from coaches. But a quiet, calculated speed—the kind that builds silently, lap after lap, until one day it overtakes everything.
And yet, no matter how much she improved, Arjun Malhotra was always just out of reach.
It wasn’t just his technique. It was his presence. He filled the pool like a secret you weren’t allowed to speak aloud. And Zoya, despite all her resolve, found herself searching for him before every dive.
She told herself it was competition. Just adrenaline. But it wasn’t.
It was obsession, disguised as progress.
That Thursday, Coach announced mock heats. “Pairing by lane. Timed swims. National selectors will be watching this footage later. Impress them.”
Zoya’s lane was five. Arjun’s was six.
Adjacent. Side-by-side.
She tried not to react. She tried not to glance at him. But she felt his gaze even before he looked.
He was standing at the far end, stretching, shoulders rippling under his sleeveless tee. There was a small scar on his left shoulder blade—barely visible unless you were looking for it.
Zoya was.
And she hated that she was.
She shook it off. Focused on her warm-up. Breathing. Angles. Turn speed. Arm torque.
But nothing prepared her for what happened in the water.
The gun went off. She dove.
They swam together, perfectly matched. Stroke for stroke. Turn for turn. The world shrank. Only the water existed.
Halfway through the third lap, she saw him underwater—just to her right. His face was calm, eyes open, fixed on her like he was watching her thoughts instead of her form.
That was when it happened.
Her rhythm faltered. A micro-second pause. Barely enough to notice. But in this camp, it was fatal.
He pulled ahead.
She pushed harder, almost desperate now. Her legs ached. Her lungs were knives.
By the time they touched the wall, he was three seconds ahead.
Zoya gasped, clinging to the edge. Arjun wasn’t even breathing heavily.
He looked at her, water dripping from his chin. “You blinked.”
She narrowed her eyes. “You were staring.”
“I was studying.”
She turned away. “Felt more like dissecting.”
“Same thing.”
Coach called out their times.
Zoya was second-best. Again.
That night, Zoya couldn’t sleep.
She lay in her bunk, staring at the ceiling, her body wrapped in the ache of failure and the heat of memory.
Why had he looked at her like that underwater?
It wasn’t lust. It wasn’t mockery. It was something colder. Deeper. Like he was searching for weakness—and enjoying it.
Her phone buzzed.
Unknown number.
“You breathe wrong on your turns. Meet me tomorrow at 5. Stop sulking.”
She knew it was him.
No name. No emoji. Just command.
She should have blocked him. Deleted the message. Reported it even.
Instead, she replied:
“Only if you promise not to play eye games again.”
He wrote back:
“Then don’t give me anything worth watching.”
The next morning, the pool was half-lit in pre-dawn greyness. Zoya arrived five minutes early. Arjun was already swimming laps like he hadn’t left the water all night.
She stood at the edge. He stopped, slicked back his hair, and nodded. “Lane four.”
She slipped in. No greeting. No small talk. Just the quiet understanding of two people who didn’t need words anymore.
He coached her without warmth, but with precision.
“Your hand enters too early. Fix it.”
“Don’t breathe on every stroke. It slows you.”
“Imagine the water hates you. Fight it.”
“Again.”
“Again.”
Zoya obeyed.
Until her legs shook and her arms trembled and her mind screamed for air.
When she finally paused, clinging to the wall, he came close. His voice dropped. “You swim like you’re afraid of what’s behind you.”
She looked up. “Maybe I am.”
His eyes were unreadable. “You’ll never win that way.”
She swallowed. “And you? What are you afraid of?”
Silence.
He leaned closer. “I’m not afraid of drowning. I’m afraid of surfacing.”
Later that day, during dry-land training, she watched him from across the gym.
He was lifting weights with controlled fury, jaw clenched, every movement precise and punishing. As if he hated his own strength. As if he was burning something invisible.
She wasn’t the only one watching.
Another swimmer—Meenal—nudged her. “You know he punched a coach once, right?”
Zoya frowned. “What?”
“Last year. During training in Australia. Coach yelled at him during a meet. Arjun broke his jaw.”
“That’s not in the papers.”
“Of course not. His father’s a donor. And the Federation wants gold.”
Zoya looked back at him. “Is it true?”
Meenal shrugged. “Does it matter?”
Zoya didn’t answer.
But that night, when she found another note in her locker, she felt her pulse quicken.
“Stop looking for the boy in me. I buried him long ago.” —A.M.
She read it three times.
And then, she didn’t sleep at all.
Part 4: The Locker Room Door
Zoya Narang didn’t mean to stay behind.
But something about the silence after practice was addictive. When the pool was drained of voices, and the air hung heavy with chlorine and fatigue, it felt like the only time she could breathe.
Everyone else had left. Laughter echoed faintly down the corridor. Her muscles ached. Her left ankle throbbed slightly from a bad turn. But she lingered—stretching on the bench, the ends of her towel damp, her hair still dripping.
The locker room was dim. The old fan rattled above, stirring warm air that did nothing to cool her down. She reached for her bag.
That’s when she heard the door.
It creaked open.
Arjun Malhotra walked in.
He didn’t look surprised to see her. He never did.
Zoya straightened. “You stalking me now?”
He raised an eyebrow. “You think highly of yourself.”
“Locker room’s usually empty by now.”
“I know.”
That answer—calm, casual, absolute—sent a shiver down her spine.
He walked to his locker, just a few steps from hers. Opened it. Pulled out a dry shirt. He moved with that same predator grace—no wasted motion, no need for speed. Everything with purpose.
Zoya turned back to her bag, pretending to rummage.
He peeled off his damp tee. She saw the movement in the mirror. His back—broad, scarred, perfect in a broken way.
She looked away.
Too late.
He caught her eyes in the mirror.
“Curious?” he asked.
“Not particularly.”
He smirked. “Then stop staring.”
“I’m not staring.”
“You are.”
She turned. “Okay, I am. You always look like you’re about to explode. But you never do. What are you hiding, Arjun?”
He paused.
And then, unexpectedly, he walked closer.
Two steps. Three.
He stopped in front of her—bare-chested, damp hair falling into his eyes. The silence between them pulsed like a heartbeat.
“You want to know what I’m hiding?” he said softly.
Zoya’s throat tightened. She told herself to back away. But her feet didn’t move.
He leaned in slightly. Not touching. But close enough that she could feel the heat off his skin.
“I’m hiding the part of me that wants to lose.”
She blinked. “What?”
He smiled, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “Everyone expects me to win. To dominate. But sometimes… I just want to stop. To rest. To be allowed to fall apart. But people like me—champions—we don’t get to fall. We break quietly.”
Zoya couldn’t look away.
“And you?” he asked. “What are you hiding behind all that fire and sarcasm?”
Her voice was quiet. “I panic. In deep water. Sometimes I can’t breathe. I fake my turns just to make it through.”
He studied her.
Then he did something unexpected.
He touched her wrist—lightly. Like he was testing the idea of connection.
“You swim like you’re trying to erase something.”
She nodded. “Maybe I am.”
He stepped back. The tension snapped, leaving behind a hollow ache.
“Tomorrow. 4 AM. Dry land circuit. You’re not ready for what’s coming. I’ll train you.”
She scoffed. “You’re not my coach.”
“No,” he said. “But I’m the only one who sees what’s breaking in you.”
He walked away, pulling his hoodie over his damp hair, the door swinging behind him.
Zoya stood there for a long moment, heart hammering in her chest, unsure whether she had just been warned, offered help, or threatened.
Maybe all three.
The next morning, her body revolted.
Every muscle screamed. Her palms burned from rope climbs. Her thighs ached from jumps. Her lungs felt like shredded paper.
Arjun didn’t go easy.
“You think medals come from talent?” he growled between sets. “It comes from pain. From showing up when your soul wants to hide.”
Zoya bit back tears. “I didn’t ask for your motivational poster quotes.”
He tossed her a bottle of water. “Then quit. Go back to being background noise.”
That lit the fire.
She stood up. “You don’t get to define me.”
He looked at her, something like approval flickering behind the hardness.
“Then prove me wrong.”
After the session, they sat outside the training room, backs against the wall. Their breath visible in the cold morning air.
Neither spoke for a long time.
Finally, Zoya asked, “Do you like swimming?”
He didn’t answer immediately.
“I used to,” he said. “Before it became my identity. Before every splash I made had a sponsor behind it.”
She nodded. “I swim to forget. You swim to be remembered.”
He looked at her then. “Maybe that’s why we keep meeting at the edge.”
That night, her body refused to move.
But her mind wouldn’t stop.
She thought of Arjun’s words. His touch. The way he looked like he wanted to lose, but couldn’t allow himself.
She turned over in her bunk, hugging her knees. She should be afraid of him. Of his intensity. His past. His eyes.
But she wasn’t.
She was afraid of how much she was beginning to understand him.
And worse—how much she wanted him to understand her back.
Part 5: You’re Bleeding
The pain came during a butterfly drill.
It wasn’t dramatic—no pop, no scream. Just a silent tug in Zoya’s shoulder as she reached too far, too fast, against water that didn’t forgive mistakes. By the time she touched the wall, her right arm was barely moving.
Coach Raghavan glanced over, unconcerned. “Strain?”
She nodded. “I’ll ice it.”
“You’ll train through it,” he corrected. “This isn’t yoga camp.”
She bit her lip and nodded again.
Ten minutes later, she was in the locker room, gripping the edge of the basin as hot water poured over her stiff arm. Her breath came shallow. The ache was spreading down her back like ink.
The door creaked. She didn’t turn.
“I told you your entry angle was off,” said Arjun’s voice.
Zoya exhaled. “And I told you I wasn’t in the mood for lectures.”
He walked up beside her, holding a roll of medical tape and a small ice pack. “Sit.”
She hesitated.
He sat on the bench himself. “You want help or not?”
Reluctantly, she sat. He knelt in front of her, gently pulling her arm forward. His fingers were cold, but steady. She winced.
“I’m fine.”
“No, you’re not,” he said, wrapping the ice in a towel. “You’re bruising already.”
“I’ve swum through worse.”
“And how did that end for you?”
Zoya didn’t answer.
His hands moved with surprising care, pressing, wrapping, supporting. It was the first time she’d been touched without a challenge between them. The air between them softened. Something shifted.
“You’re bleeding,” he said suddenly.
She looked down. Her wrist had a thin red scratch from the lane divider. She hadn’t even noticed.
“It’s nothing,” she muttered.
But he took her hand anyway, wiping the blood with the corner of his shirt. She tried to pull away. He didn’t let her.
“You don’t get to ignore pain just because you’re afraid of being seen,” he said.
Zoya stared at him.
“And you?” she asked. “What are you afraid of?”
His grip loosened.
“Not being able to stop.”
There it was again—that glimpse of something raw, unfinished, inside him. A door opening and shutting so fast she almost doubted it had opened at all.
Later that evening, the sky turned a heavy, stormy grey. Practice was cancelled. The team scattered—some to video games, others to calls with parents or lovers or both. Zoya sat alone in the common room, her shoulder wrapped, knees curled under her.
She watched the storm through the window. The pool was empty, lit only by the dull flicker of the backup lights. Water rippled with each gust of wind. It looked almost alive.
“Scared of lightning?” Arjun’s voice came from behind her.
She shook her head. “Not really.”
He walked over, dropping into the chair next to hers.
He looked different tonight. Not in gear. No towel. Just jeans and a faded grey t-shirt that made him look too ordinary, too human.
“I used to train during storms,” he said. “No one else would swim. I liked it. Made me feel like I was breaking rules.”
Zoya looked at him sideways. “You love control too much to be a rule-breaker.”
He smiled faintly. “Not always. Sometimes I like seeing what happens when I let go.”
“And?”
“I remember why I don’t.”
They sat in silence. The air hummed with electricity—outside the glass, and between them.
Zoya’s voice was quiet. “Why do you keep helping me?”
Arjun didn’t answer immediately. When he did, it was a whisper. “Because you make me want to be better. And I don’t like it.”
Her chest tightened. “You think I’m weak.”
“No,” he said. “I think you’re brave. Stupidly brave.”
“You think I’m easy to break.”
“I think you already have been.”
She looked at him. He looked away.
A flash of lightning lit the room for a moment. When it faded, their eyes met again. This time, something stayed.
He reached forward—slow, deliberate—and brushed a strand of damp hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered for a second too long.
“You’re bleeding,” he repeated softly.
But they both knew he wasn’t talking about her wrist anymore.
Later that night, in her dorm bed, Zoya stared at the ceiling again.
Everything ached.
But none of it was from swimming.
It was from Arjun’s touch.
His eyes.
His words.
And the terrifying way they made her feel—exposed, understood, desired, and dangerously close to being undone.
She wrapped herself in her blanket, as if that could stop the way his voice echoed in her bones.
But it didn’t.
Because she wasn’t just bleeding in the water anymore.
She was bleeding into him.
Part 6: The Deep End
By the next morning, Zoya Narang had built herself back into silence.
The warmth of Arjun’s hand on her skin, the whisper of his words, the way his eyes had softened—she packed them all away into an invisible box and locked it tight. She couldn’t afford that kind of softness. Not here. Not now.
Her shoulder still ached, and the scratch on her wrist had darkened to a bruise. But she reported for practice before sunrise, as always, lane five, hair tied, face unreadable.
Arjun arrived late.
He didn’t look at her.
Didn’t nod. Didn’t smirk. Didn’t even glance.
Zoya felt the cold before her feet touched the water.
Coach Raghavan was in a foul mood. “Ten back-to-back timed laps. Mixed strokes. No break. If I see one of you slacking, you’re off the roster for Friday’s exhibition match. Let’s see who’s built for blood.”
Zoya barely had time to stretch. The whistle blew.
She dove in.
Lap one—freestyle. Her strokes were sharp, clean. She pushed past the ache in her arm. Pushed past the voice in her head that whispered he’s ignoring you. She had to swim for herself.
Lap two—backstroke. The ceiling lights blurred. Her legs kicked against the drag of self-doubt.
Lap three—breaststroke. Slower. The pain grew louder.
Lap four—fly.
Her shoulders screamed.
But she didn’t stop.
By the sixth lap, her lungs felt like fire. Her rhythm began to falter. She surfaced gasping. Every muscle throbbed. The water blurred into light and sound.
And that’s when it happened.
On the seventh lap, at the turn, her foot missed the wall.
She spun awkwardly, hitting her knee against the tile. Pain shot up her leg.
She surfaced coughing, water filling her nose and throat. She heard the whistle blow again—sharper this time.
Disqualified.
She clung to the side of the pool, heaving, the taste of chlorine bitter on her tongue. Her vision swam.
And then he was there.
Arjun.
He crouched beside her, expression unreadable.
“You missed the wall,” he said, voice low. “That could’ve torn your knee.”
She nodded, barely breathing. “I know.”
“You didn’t stop.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Why?”
Her voice was a whisper. “Because if I stop, I’ll disappear.”
His expression changed. Just slightly. His eyes flicked to the red mark blooming on her knee.
“You’re bleeding again.”
She laughed bitterly. “Seems to be a habit.”
He looked at her. Really looked. Not as a rival. Not as a swimmer. But as something more fragile, more dangerous.
And then he stood.
“Come with me,” he said.
She didn’t ask where they were going.
She followed him down the back corridor of the facility, past the therapy room, the unused guest locker space, and through a door that led to the old storage wing—now mostly abandoned.
The floor was dusty. Lights flickered. Echoes bounced off the walls like memories.
He pushed open a door. Inside, a forgotten training room—weights, yoga mats, an old balance beam. No cameras. No coaches. No expectations.
Zoya stepped in. “Why are we here?”
“Because you’re not going to disappear,” Arjun said. “Not on my watch.”
She stared at him.
“You think pain makes you invisible,” he continued. “But it makes you real.”
“I don’t want to be real,” she said. “I want to win. I want to get out. I want to prove—”
He cut her off. “You don’t have to prove anything. Not to your father. Not to me. Not to this camp.”
His voice cracked slightly. She caught it.
“What are you trying to fix?” she asked.
He didn’t answer.
So she took a step closer.
“You talk like someone who’s broken,” she said softly.
His jaw tightened. “Maybe I am.”
They stood in silence, the weight of unsaid things louder than any scream.
And then he moved.
One step.
Two.
He reached out and touched her wrist again. Just like before. His fingers traced the fading bruise.
“I’m scared of how much I see myself in you,” he whispered.
Zoya’s breath caught.
“And I’m scared,” she whispered back, “that the only person who sees me is someone trying not to be seen.”
He looked at her.
And this time, he didn’t look away.
He leaned in, slowly, cautiously—like someone approaching the edge of a very deep pool. His hand moved to her waist. Hers to his chest.
Their lips met.
It wasn’t soft.
It wasn’t perfect.
It was sharp, urgent, a crash rather than a kiss.
Zoya gasped as his arms pulled her closer, and he kissed her like he was trying to breathe through her. She responded like she was drowning and this was her last chance to surface.
It ended as suddenly as it began.
They pulled apart, breathless.
Neither spoke.
The silence wasn’t awkward.
It was terrifying.
Because it meant something had broken.
Or begun.
Or both.
Zoya left the room first.
Back in the dorm, she lay awake in bed, fingers on her lips, her body still thrumming.
She didn’t know what she and Arjun had just done.
Started a fire?
Crossed a line?
Or finally admitted what had been swimming between them all along?
But she knew this—
She wasn’t in the shallow end anymore.
She was in deep.
And the deeper she went, the less sure she was of ever coming back up.
Part 7: Out of Air
Zoya Narang stopped hearing the world.
Not all at once. Not dramatically. But slowly, like a volume dial being turned down inside her head.
The morning after the kiss, the sky over the camp was a pale, smoky gray. The storm had passed, but the air still felt heavy—thick with something unspoken. Maybe it was the tension. Maybe it was her.
In the mirror, her reflection looked almost unfamiliar. Bruised lips. A faint red patch near her collarbone. She had pressed her scarf tighter, told herself it didn’t matter. But the truth clung to her skin like chlorine.
She had kissed Arjun Malhotra.
Or had he kissed her?
No. They had met in the middle.
And now they were floating in some invisible space, too far from the ground to step back, too deep in the water to breathe.
At the pool that morning, he avoided her. Didn’t speak. Didn’t nod. Not even a flicker of recognition. As if the kiss had been imagined.
As if none of it had happened.
She matched his silence.
But her heart was louder than ever.
Coach Raghavan was in a brutal mood. “Five rounds of underwater sprints. You touch the surface before the flags, you start over.”
Zoya took her position.
She could barely feel her limbs. Everything felt like cotton—floaty, numb, detached. But she dove in anyway.
Underwater, the world was mute. The only sound was the drumbeat of her own blood. Her arms moved mechanically. Legs kicked. But her mind… wasn’t in it.
All she could see was his face.
His mouth on hers.
His fingers digging into her waist like she might slip away.
A ripple of memory distracted her for half a second.
She swallowed water.
Panic surged.
Her lungs rebelled. She kicked upward, desperate, too early.
Whistle.
“Back to the start!” Coach barked.
Zoya coughed, clutching the lane rope, her chest burning.
Arjun swam past her. Didn’t look.
Didn’t care.
The next two rounds were worse.
Her timing was off.
She missed the flags.
Coach glared at her like she was wasting his oxygen.
By the end of the set, she had failed every round.
Arjun hadn’t failed once.
When they climbed out, she dropped to her towel like a deflated balloon. Her back ached. Her lungs ached. But most of all, it was her pride that was broken.
He walked by. She looked up.
Their eyes met for a fraction of a second.
And then he kept walking.
Something cracked inside her.
That evening, she stood alone at the edge of the pool.
No lights.
No coach.
No noise.
She didn’t want to swim. She wanted to sink.
But she dove anyway.
No laps. No strokes. Just… immersion.
She let herself drift. Eyes open. Body still. The weight of the water held her like a secret.
Down there, everything was quiet. Honest. Uncomplicated.
She thought of her father’s voice again—“Keep going. Never stop. Winners don’t drown.”
But what if you’re already underwater?
What if you don’t want to come back up?
She floated deeper.
Her lungs begged for air.
Still, she didn’t rise.
Still.
Still.
Then—
A splash.
Hands.
Arms around her.
She was pulled upward, dragged through the surface, gasping, coughing, shaking.
Arjun.
He was breathing hard, furious.
“What the hell are you doing?” he roared. “Are you insane?”
She coughed, choking on air. “Let go.”
“You weren’t coming up!”
“I didn’t want to!” she shouted, voice hoarse. “I just wanted it to stop. The pressure. The pain. You!”
He stared at her, drenched, livid.
“You don’t get to break now,” he said through clenched teeth. “Not after all this.”
She pushed his chest. “You kissed me and then ignored me like it never happened.”
He didn’t respond.
She shoved him harder. “Say something!”
His voice cracked. “I’m scared, Zoya. That’s why I didn’t say anything.”
“Of what?” she snapped. “Me?”
He looked away. “Of how much I want this. You.”
The silence between them quivered.
“Then stop running,” she said.
“I don’t know how.”
“You teach me how to swim. Let me teach you how to stay.”
He looked at her. The anger melted into something softer. Sadder. Real.
He reached for her, this time gently.
They held each other. Wet. Cold. Unsteady.
But together.
Back in the dorm, wrapped in dry clothes and silence, Zoya sat on her bunk, staring at the ceiling.
Everything still ached.
But she had surfaced.
And this time, she hadn’t been alone.
Part 8: Control
The next morning, no one could tell that Zoya Narang had nearly drowned.
Her hair was tied tighter. Her posture straighter. Even the trainers noticed she was early—stretches done, eyes alert. But inside, everything still spun.
Arjun hadn’t messaged. Hadn’t spoken.
Again.
But this time, she understood. He wasn’t being cruel. He was trying to control the storm inside him. And that terrified him more than any loss.
She was beginning to understand control now. How it could be mistaken for strength. How it could become a cage you built around yourself, brick by brick, while smiling for the crowd.
That morning’s drills were brutal. Sled pushes across the track. Weighted planks. Rope climbs till the palms burned.
Coach Raghavan watched like a hawk. “Pick up pace, Narang.”
She pushed harder.
Across the hall, Arjun was doing battle ropes—sweat dripping, jaw locked, eyes furious. His rhythm was perfect, relentless.
Zoya realized then—he trained like someone trying to exorcise something.
Later, she found him alone in the rehab room, wrapping his own wrist with tape. His knuckles were red.
“You always injure yourself and then act surprised,” she said, walking in.
He didn’t look up. “I didn’t ask for company.”
“You never do.”
He gave her a sidelong glance. “You okay?”
“You mean since the part where I tried to drown?”
“I meant since the part where I failed to stop you.”
She walked over, took the tape from his hands, and began wrapping his wrist herself. He let her.
“You know,” she said quietly, “it’s okay to let someone hold you up sometimes.”
“I’m not used to it.”
“That’s not a good enough excuse anymore.”
Their hands touched. He didn’t pull away.
“You make me want to let go of control,” he whispered.
She looked up. “Why is that a bad thing?”
“Because control is the only reason I’m still standing.”
She tied the last loop of tape. “Then lean. Just once. On me.”
For a moment, the room fell away.
Then he leaned forward—not to kiss her—but to rest his forehead against hers. The gesture was quieter than a confession. But deeper.
She felt the tremor in his breath. The weight he finally allowed to slip.
“I’ve hurt people before,” he said.
“You haven’t hurt me,” she replied.
“Yet.”
She took his hand. “Then don’t.”
He looked at her like she had just given him an option no one ever had.
That evening, Coach announced the team list for the exhibition heats.
“Narang, you’re up in freestyle and butterfly. Malhotra, all four heats. Expected.”
Zoya kept her reaction tight. But inside, adrenaline danced.
She was being seen. She had a chance.
After dinner, she walked past the pool one more time.
The lights were off.
But someone was in the water.
Of course.
Arjun.
She sat on the edge, dipping her feet.
“Extra laps?” she called.
He surfaced, slick hair, sharp breath. “Always.”
“I thought you already had control of everything.”
He smiled faintly. “It slips.”
She watched him for a moment. “You don’t always have to win, you know.”
“I don’t know who I am if I don’t.”
She nodded. “Then maybe it’s time to find out.”
Later, in the darkness of her room, she wrote in her old notebook.
Not goals. Not timings.
But words.
You don’t have to conquer the water. You just have to learn to float in it.
Next day, Zoya swam her fastest lap yet.
Her form was clean. Her shoulder held. She touched the wall second—just behind a national record holder.
But it wasn’t the timing that made her chest swell.
It was the nod Coach gave her. The rare kind.
Approval.
Across the pool, Arjun met her eyes and mouthed one word.
“Proud.”
She smiled. Not because she needed it. But because it came from him.
And that meant something.
That night, they met behind the practice wing.
No words.
Just breath, heat, and the safety of a stolen moment.
He kissed her again.
Not like he was drowning.
But like he was finally surfacing.
When he pulled away, he rested his hand on her chest.
“You’re not bleeding anymore.”
She whispered, “Neither are you.”
They stood like that for a long time.
Two storms.
One quiet.
Part 9: Finals
The finals came with more noise than Zoya expected.
The stands were packed—not with the public, but with selectors, senior athletes, and a handful of sponsors. There were cameras too. Not the kind for memories, but the kind that judged. That remembered every mistake.
Zoya sat at the edge of the bench in her team jacket, legs bouncing. Her race—the freestyle heat—was third. Arjun had already finished his first round, emerging from the pool like something carved out of discipline and control. His time was flawless.
He hadn’t spoken to her yet.
She understood why.
This wasn’t the locker room. This wasn’t a late-night corridor.
This was war.
Everyone fought alone here.
Coach Raghavan paced in front of the swimmers. “I don’t care about the noise. I care about one thing—execution. You’ve trained for this. You’ve bled for this. Show me.”
Zoya nodded without even thinking. Her body felt distant, like it belonged to someone else. A machine, maybe. One that happened to have her face.
The loudspeaker crackled. “Heat three, lane five: Zoya Narang.”
Her name cut through the fog in her head.
She stripped off the jacket. Walked barefoot to the block. Her fingers shook, but only slightly. Her lane was right beside Arjun’s. He didn’t glance at her. Just crouched down, preparing.
Her eyes closed.
Just water. Just silence. Just breath.
The whistle blew.
She dove.
Everything disappeared.
The crowd. The lights. Even Arjun.
Just the water.
She swam like the lane was hers. Like it had always been waiting for her to take it seriously. Her arms moved with sharp precision. Her legs kicked from memory. Her lungs burned, but didn’t beg.
She turned at the wall—clean.
Second lap. Strong.
Halfway through, she felt the pull of fatigue. But she didn’t stop. She thought of Arjun’s voice—Swim like you own the water—and she pushed harder.
She touched the wall.
Gasped.
Looked at the board.
Second place.
Personal best.
The ache in her chest was overshadowed by a kind of disbelief.
She had done it.
She had not disappeared.
She didn’t look for him immediately.
Zoya walked back to the bench, wrapping the towel around her like armor. Her teammates gave her smiles, nods, half-claps. Coach Raghavan said, “That’s more like it.”
But she didn’t care about any of that.
She only cared when Arjun finally approached her after his final heat.
His hair was soaked. His breathing ragged. His lips slightly bruised from the edge of his goggles.
He stopped in front of her. Said nothing.
She waited.
Then he reached out, took her hand—openly, right there in front of everyone—and squeezed.
Just once.
No words.
But it said everything.
Later that night, the pool was dark again.
But they were both there. Sitting at opposite ends, feet in the water, no words yet.
Zoya broke the silence. “You won every heat.”
He shrugged. “Didn’t feel like a win.”
“Why not?”
He looked up. “Because I was more focused on watching you swim than remembering how I did.”
Zoya smiled. “You’re terrible at hiding things now.”
He nodded. “Maybe I’m done hiding.”
A pause.
Then she asked the question she’d been avoiding.
“What happens after this?”
He was quiet.
Then: “Trials for the Commonwealth team. Probably training camp abroad. Months on the road. Alone.”
She nodded. “And me?”
“You’ll be here. You’ll keep winning. You’ll be someone they remember.”
A beat.
“Will you?”
He looked at her then. Eyes soft, voice firm.
“I already do.”
He slid into the water, then reached out a hand.
“Swim with me?”
She hesitated. Then slipped in.
They didn’t race.
They floated.
Side by side.
Under the stars.
In silence.
Zoya looked up once at the sky—dark, endless, scattered with small lights.
Like everything she feared.
And everything she wanted.
In that moment, she knew—
Even if he left, even if they couldn’t survive the distance or the silence or the expectations—
She would never bleed alone again.
Not in water.
Not in love.
Not in herself.
Part 10: Surface
Two weeks later, Zoya Narang stood at Platform 7 of New Delhi Railway Station, her duffel bag slung over one shoulder, fingers drumming against the strap.
It was still early morning. The station buzzed with chai sellers, announcements, and passengers wrapped in shawls and sleep. Her train to Lucknow would leave in twenty minutes. Her phone had no new messages.
She had told herself not to expect one.
Arjun had left for Australia the day after the finals. No goodbye, no late-night meeting, no kiss by the pool. Just a note, left inside her swim cap.
“You saved me. Thank you. Win everything.”
She had read it a hundred times.
The train whistled in the distance. Zoya took a deep breath and turned toward the platform gate. That’s when she saw him.
Standing by the pillar. Hoodie pulled low. Bag in one hand.
Arjun Malhotra.
Her heart stopped. Then kicked so hard she nearly lost balance.
He walked over slowly, as if the weight of whatever he was carrying inside slowed his pace more than his luggage ever could.
“Didn’t think you’d come,” she said, voice even.
“I almost didn’t.”
“What changed?”
“I got to the airport,” he said. “Then I remembered what you said… about learning to stay.”
She blinked. “You missed your flight?”
He shrugged. “Control can wait.”
Zoya exhaled a laugh, then looked at him. “You’re crazy.”
“Probably.”
The train behind her roared. Passengers pushed past. But the world had narrowed to a circle of two.
“I don’t expect you to stay,” she said. “We’re not that couple.”
“I know,” he replied.
“I don’t want promises.”
“I don’t make them.”
“But I want to know…” She hesitated. “When you swim next—wherever you are—will you think of me?”
He smiled, a rare, gentle curve of the mouth. “Every lap.”
“And when I swim…” she said, “I’ll swim like I’m chasing you.”
He stepped closer. Not touching her. Just near enough that she could hear the truth in his breath.
“We’re not perfect,” he said. “We’re probably not built to last.”
“Maybe not,” she said.
“But we’re real,” he whispered.
She nodded.
Then he kissed her—softly this time. No urgency. No war. Just lips against lips, quiet and sure, like two hands finding each other in the dark.
When they pulled apart, the train was boarding.
“I’ll call,” he said.
She grinned. “Liar.”
“Write, then.”
“Better.”
He turned. Walked back toward the exit, slipping into the crowd.
Zoya boarded the train.
Hours later, as fields rolled past her window in green and yellow blur, Zoya opened her notebook again.
No times. No drills. Just words.
Sometimes love isn’t about holding on.
It’s about showing up when you want to run.
It’s about the ones who see you bleeding and stay anyway.
She closed the notebook.
Leaned back.
Smiled.
And knew she had surfaced.
At last.
THE END
Thank you for swimming with Zoya and Arjun.
