Novak couldn't sleep. Again.
The dorm room was dim, the ceiling fan humming like an idle engine. Across the room, Grigori was snoring – loud, confident, unbothered. The guy could sleep through a hurricane. He'd once said, "Champions always sleep well."
Novak never did.
His own nights were rituals of anxiety: a playlist, a cup of warm milk, counting heartbeats, reciting stats, breathing patterns. Nothing ever worked.
Tonight was no different. His thoughts felt like glass shards tumbling inside a jar.
He needed air.
The campus was quiet – a few lights flickering in distant windows, the sound of waves crawling toward the beach. The ocean had a calmness he envied. It didn't overthink being the ocean; it just existed.
Then he saw him – Coach Erik Kuhlmann, standing near the shore, barefoot, sleeves rolled, a cigarette glowing between his fingers, and a beer can dangling from the other hand. A strange picture.
Kuhlmann noticed him and smirked. "You can't sleep too, huh? Guess that makes two of us."
He muttered something in German – the syllables rough, heavy. Novak didn't understand a word.
"Yeah," Novak said quietly, walking closer, "sometimes it's hard for me."
"That's why you're fat," Kuhlmann said without turning.
The words hit like a slap. Novak laughed weakly. "Coach, that's hurtful."
"So what? You gonna cry to your mother?"
That one cut deeper than it should have. Novak's throat tightened. "That's not funny."
Kuhlmann turned, exhaling smoke through his nose. "Relax, Bamby. I'm joking. You don't even have a mother to cry to."
That did it. "Coach, stop," Novak snapped, louder than he meant to.
Kuhlmann's grin widened slightly. "Finally, some fire. For a while I thought you'd settled into being everyone's punchline."
"I didn't choose that," Novak said, voice trembling. "That's just… how I am."
"Oh, but you did." Kuhlmann's tone stayed calm, almost gentle. "We all do. That's what makes us human – choosing the shape of our cage."
Novak looked away, the sea reflected in his eyes.
Kuhlmann's voice softened. "Tell me, what keeps you up at night, kid?"
"I don't know… I just feel stuck. Like I'm running in place. The others are moving, and I'm… nowhere."
"Ah." Kuhlmann nodded. "That one I know well. The sickness of watching others ascend while you choke on your own breath."
He took another drag, then glanced sideways. "You know I read your file, right?"
Novak tensed. "Yeah, I figured."
"I know everything," Kuhlmann continued. "I know about your father. I know your mother left Serbia when you were six, said she'd send money, said she'd come back. She didn't." His voice lowered. "You were seven the last time you saw her. You stood at that train station for hours, didn't you?"
Novak's lips parted, but no sound came out.
"I know you used to sit by the window searching for her silhouette," Kuhlmann said, eyes cold but not cruel. "And that your father called you a dumb fuck for it. So you became smart. Too smart. Smarter than everyone – except yourself. Because that's the one person you never believed in."
The words sank like stones. Novak's jaw trembled. "So… what do I do, Coach?"
Kuhlmann looked at the horizon – the thin line where sky met sea. "You know Nietzsche, right?"
Novak blinked. "The Nazi guy? If you're about to recruit me into some weird movement, I should warn you – I have black and communist friends."
Kuhlmann barked a laugh. "Nietzsche wasn't a Nazi. He was just badly quoted by them. What matters is one idea of his – Eternal Return."
Novak frowned. "Sounds like reincarnation. Or… attachment issues."
Kuhlmann grinned. "You'd know about those." Then, more serious: "The Eternal Return isn't about politics. It's about choice. Nietzsche said that if everything in your life – every pain, every joy – would repeat forever, then you must live in a way you'd want to relive that same moment eternally."
Novak stared at the ground. "Damn. My life must be an eternal shitstorm, then."
Kuhlmann chuckled, flicking his cigarette into the sand. "Maybe. But the trick is this — if you take control, if you make choices you'd be willing to relive for eternity, the fear dies. And you become immortal."
He stepped forward, placed his palm flat against Novak's chest, right over his heart. "Darkness before, darkness ahead – both blind you. But you must train anxiety and fear like a pet. Domesticate them. What did Lucretius say? Where I exist, death cannot. And where death is… I am not. This is why death means nothing to me."
He continued, quieter now – his tone drifting somewhere between genius and madness: "Out of despair, a dancing star is born. A proud tree only grows strong in storms."
The words lingered in the air, like something profound.
Novak stared at him, breath caught. Kuhlmann's eyes reflected the dim light of the cigarette.
The sea hissed against the sand, like it understood.
Novak felt something shift inside him. Maybe pity, maybe awe. He didn't know. "Wow," he said quietly. "Sounds cool… but I don't think I get it."
Kuhlmann smiled faintly. "Good. Understanding isn't the point. Living is."
He turned and started walking toward the dark waves, muttering something else in German. Novak didn't need a translation. "Now go sleep, Novak. Tomorrow, you start living like every second deserves eternity."
He just stood there, listening to the endless breath of the ocean, wondering what it would mean to live like that.