After stepping off stage, Art walked calmly down the amphitheater steps. But his eyes betrayed something deeper. As soon as he turned into an empty hallway, his pace quickened—he headed straight for the restroom.
In front of the mirror, he gripped the edge of the sink and closed his eyes. He splashed cold water on his face, like trying to put out a fire burning at the back of his neck. Then, without thinking, he rolled up his sleeves to wash his hands.
That's when the bruises appeared—deep, blue marks along both arms. Like someone had beaten him the night before. The cold water stung, and a low whimper escaped his lips.
At that exact moment, the door opened.
Art flinched and yanked his sleeves back down, but it was too late. Someone had seen. And not just anyone—it was Coach Anurak.
— "Art? I wanted to talk to you about the new training schedule…"
But the coach's voice stopped. His eyes had landed on Art's arms, and his face turned serious.
— "Those marks… Who did that to you? Did you get into a fight? Are you hurt?"
Art looked away, jaw tight.
— "Don't worry, sir. It won't affect my performance."
And without waiting for an answer, he walked out with firm steps. He didn't want pity. He didn't want to be seen as weak.
He made his way to the infirmary. As he got closer, he saw a group of students leaving—Sun, Rin, Love, and Han. He vaguely recognized them but didn't give them a second glance. He walked inside.
The school nurse, Mr. Michael, looked up as Art entered. He didn't look surprised.
— "Did he do it again?" he asked softly.
No answer. Just a lowered head. Art walked quietly toward the bed by the window, the one he always chose.
Michael watched him from a distance, a quiet sadness in his eyes. How had a boy who used to be so expressive become like this?
Flashback – One year earlier
It was the end of the second day of school. That day, Art was terrified to go home. His mother had recently run away from his father—a violent man who had beaten them both. She told Art she was just going to watch him swim... but she never came back.
Since that day, the abuse had only gotten worse. More frequent. More silent. And for Art's father, just hearing the word "swimming" was enough to send him into a rage. It reminded him of the woman who had left him behind. But Art couldn't stop swimming—not if he wanted to keep his sports scholarship and stay in university.
It had been pouring rain that day. Michael, still new to the school, was watching the students leave the building.
One boy wasn't rushing. No umbrella. No backpack. His soaked hair stuck to his forehead, and his clothes clung to his skin.
It was Art.
He walked slowly, like the rain didn't bother him. Like he wanted to drown in it.
Michael grabbed an umbrella and rushed out to him.
— "Hey! You're going to catch a cold if you stay out here like this!"
Art stopped and looked up. And then, he said something Michael would never forget:
— "If I get sick… maybe she'll come back. Mom…"
His voice barely trembled, but the words hung in the air like something heavy. He sniffled, rubbed his nose with his sleeve, and looked away. His face had lost all light. Under the rain, his flushed cheeks told a story of cold… and deeper sorrow.
Michael stood frozen for a moment. Then he gently placed a hand on Art's shoulder and led him inside the infirmary.
Once inside, he gave him a set of dry clothes. But when Art removed his shirt, Michael was stunned. His body was covered in bruises—fresh ones, old ones, painful reminders of something worse.
Quickly, Michael treated the wounds as gently as he could.
Art wouldn't meet his gaze. He whispered:
— "Please… promise me you won't tell anyone."
Michael hesitated. Every part of him wanted to speak up. But bound by medical confidentiality, he finally nodded.
— "Alright. I won't say a word."
Back to the present
Art stayed silent for a long time, eyes fixed on the window. Michael leaned against the wall, arms crossed, watching him with quiet concern.
To Art, Michael had become like the big brother he never had. As an only child, he never knew what it felt like to have someone there—someone who listened without judgment.
Eventually, Art spoke, his voice rough:
— "How do I get rid of these marks? Tryouts are at the end of the week…"
Michael raised an eyebrow.
— "You can't make them disappear. Not in a few days. But we can ease them a bit."
Art nodded slowly. Without another word, he took off his shirt again. Michael said nothing. He fetched a soothing cream, opened it, and gently began applying it to the bruises with calm, practiced hands.
Art tensed slightly but didn't flinch. He was used to this routine.
Michael continued in silence, observing the skin—some bruises were new, others older. A tightness formed in his chest.
"What if they never disappear? What if, no matter how hard he tries, people still end up seeing the pain he hides?"
He closed the tube of cream and stood upright. Art slowly pulled his shirt back on, eyes blank.
"This has to stop," Michael thought. "I have to find a way to help him better."