A light rain covered the city where Bima was pursuing his master's degree. Street lights reflected off the wet asphalt, forming lines of light that danced in the cold autumn air. Bima walked quickly out of the faculty building, a heavy backpack slung over one shoulder, his mind still full of structural equations and bridge design sketches.
But that afternoon, it wasn't his assignments or deadlines that occupied his mind. In his left hand, he held a crumpled pamphlet that he had read several times: player selection for the city's semi-professional soccer team—a club whose name he often saw on the scoreboard of the small stadium near his apartment.
Bima stopped under the bus stop canopy, staring at the pamphlet again.
"Open Trial—Striker & Winger," it said in large letters.
He took a deep breath.
"It's crazy, huh... I've come this far, but I still think about soccer," he muttered softly in Indonesian, a language he rarely spoke except when talking to himself.
His cell phone vibrated. A message from his mother came in:
"Bima, don't forget to take care of yourself. I'm proud of you, son. Don't work too hard."
Bima smiled slightly, then replied briefly, "Yes, Mom, Bima is fine. Keep praying for me."
After that, he opened another chat that he had been avoiding for a long time: Clara. The last chat was still hanging, not ending with clarity, only with the sentence: "Bim, I need time."
Bima exhaled heavily.
"Time, huh... while life never wants to stop speeding," he hissed.
That night, in his small but tidy room, Bima sat on the edge of his bed with his laptop open. On the screen was a project report file, but his cursor moved to another tab: soccer trial registration. The online form was waiting to be filled out.
"If you fail, you'll just be wasting your time," the logical voice in his head whispered.
"But if you don't try, you'll never know," another voice argued, bringing back memories of the past: the school stands, the cheers of the audience, the POPDA finals, and his fierce duel with Aiden on the green field.
He closed his eyes for a moment, letting the memory unfold. So much had changed since then—university, country, academic status—but the feeling when his feet touched the ball, when his heart raced in sync with the pace of the game, remained the same. There was freedom there, something he couldn't find behind piles of reports and blueprints.
"Do you want to be an engineer who only understands calculations, or someone who has actually pursued all their dreams?" he asked himself, almost like the voice of his old coach.
Finally, he started typing.
Name: Bima Pratama.
Position: Striker.
Experience: Soccer school, U-19 competition, college tournament.
As his finger pressed the "Submit" button, his heart beat a little faster. This wasn't just a form, but a door to the past that had suddenly reappeared in his new life.
A few days later, the announcement arrived via email.
"Congratulations, you are invited to attend the open trial session…"
Bima repeated the sentence slowly, his eyes sparkling.
"Crazy… I got in," he whispered.
That afternoon, he looked in the mirror, seeing himself in his college jacket and bag containing the old soccer shoes he had brought from Indonesia—shoes that had accompanied him in many games.
"Okay, Bim," he said to his reflection. "This time, you're not just competing against other people. You're competing against yourself."
***
The local club's training ground was located on the outskirts of town, not far from a small river and a row of red brick houses. The afternoon air was bitterly cold, but warmed by the coach's shouts and the sound of shoes hitting the ball.
Upon arrival, Bima felt small. The other players seemed tall, fast, and accustomed to the rhythm of European soccer. They spoke a mixture of local language and fast English, with an accent that required him to concentrate extra hard to understand.
A bald coach with a whistle hanging around his neck approached him.
"Are you Bima?" he asked in English with a strong accent.
"Yes, Coach," replied Bima.
"Striker?"
"Yes."
The coach nodded briefly. "Good. Show us what you can do. Here, past reputation guarantees nothing. Only what you do today is what we see."
The words stung, but they also electrified Bima's spirit. He nodded firmly.
"Understood, Coach."
The training session began with sprints, quick passing, and finishing. Bima was placed in a small group for combination drills: one touch, movement without the ball, then finishing. When the ball first came to his feet, his body reacted faster than his mind. His first touch was soft, followed by a feint, and a low shot aimed at the far post. The goalkeeper reacted too late.
"Nice shot!" exclaimed one of the players.
Bima nodded with a smile, his breathing heavy, but adrenaline flowing.
However, not everything went smoothly. At times, the difference in playing styles made him slow to read his teammates' movements. The coach's tactics were different from what he was used to. He was out of position several times—too deep when he should have been pulling back to defend, or too close to the winger, leaving the center open.
The coach blew his whistle.
"Number 17! Bima!"
Bima turned and approached. "Yes, Coach?"
The coach pointed to a small tactics board. "Look. Here, you should take a step back to open up space for the second striker or midfielder coming up behind you. You're moving forward too quickly, making it easy for the defender to lock down your movement. Understand the space, not just the ball."
Bima nodded seriously. "I'm sorry, Coach. I'll fix it."
The coach stared at him for a few seconds, then sighed briefly. "You have instinct, that's good. But here, we play with brains and systems. Use both."
That night, in his room, Bima's muscles felt sore. He spread out a small notebook, sketched the players' positions, and wrote notes: "Diagonal run timing, pay attention to the offside line. Don't move forward too quickly. Open up space for the second line."
Next to the tactical notes, the laptop screen lit up, displaying simulation software. The deadline for his final course project was only a few days away.
"Two worlds that both demand energy and focus," he muttered, rubbing his face.
A video call came in from a college friend.
"Bim, where are you? Our project needs to be revised before tomorrow," his friend's voice said.
"I'm working on it," replied Bima. "Give me an hour, I'll send you the revisions."
"Okay, but don't take too long, bro. Our lecturer is serious."
After the call ended, Bima stared at the two things in front of him: his soccer tactics notebook and his civil engineering project files. He chuckled softly, bitterly but also proudly.
"Your life is unique too, Bim. In the morning you're an engineer-to-be, in the afternoon you're a foreign striker in a foreign country."
In the days that followed, Bima's daily routine changed completely:
- Mornings and afternoons at college, attending lectures, practicals, and project discussions.
- Afternoons until dusk on the field, participating in intense training with the team.
- Nights until late, doing assignments, reports, and rereading lecture materials.
One night, he received a text message from Clara.
"Bim, how are you? I heard you're trying out for the soccer team there?"
Bima stared at the screen for a long time before replying.
"I'm fine. Tired, but happy. Yes, I'm trying out. I don't know how it will turn out. How are you?"
Clara's reply came a few minutes later.
"I'm proud of you. You always dare to chase two dreams at once. Take care of yourself, okay?"
Bima smiled faintly, but his feelings were mixed.
"Daring to chase two dreams, but not necessarily daring to accept the results," he muttered.
A few weeks after intensive training, the club announced the list of players who would be included in the provisional squad. The locker room felt colder than usual, even though the air outside was starting to warm up. The coach held a piece of paper, his face expressionless.
"The names I call will remain on the team. Those not called, thank you for fighting. Don't think of this as the end. Think of it as a sign of the next step," he said.
Bima swallowed hard, his fingers clenched at the side of his training pants. One by one, the names were called. His heart was beating fast.
"...Number 17, Bima."
It was like a voice coming from far away, yet piercing straight through to his core. Several players patted him on the shoulder.
"Congrats, man."
"Nice, the Asian striker continues!"
Bima bowed his head, breathing a sigh of relief. In his heart, he whispered, "One more step, Bim. Don't slack off."
However, along with that feeling of gratitude, he realized the consequences: his schedule would become even more packed, the demands would become even higher, and his choices would become even more limited. He could no longer be half-hearted in pursuing both.
That night, he made a list in his notebook:
- Create a stricter schedule.
- Reduce campus social activities.
- Focus only on soccer, college, and family.
Below that, he wrote slowly:
"If one day you have to choose, are you ready?"
The question hung in the air, unanswered, unerased—like a conflict quietly growing in the depths of his life, waiting to explode.
***
The afternoon rain had just subsided when Clara closed the small door to the student counseling room at her campus. The smell of wet wood mingled with the lingering aroma of coffee from the mug she hadn't had time to wash yet. On the table, piles of clinical psychology practice reports lay alongside journals marked with colorful highlighters. That day, she had just finished counseling a student who was struggling with academic anxiety.
Clara leaned back in her chair and rubbed her temples.
"Other people come with clear problems," she muttered softly, "while I myself still can't be honest about my feelings."
Her cell phone vibrated on the table. An email notification had arrived. She grabbed it as she stood up, intending only to check her supervision schedule. But another message subject caught her attention: a photo Bima had sent a few hours ago—she hadn't had time to open it yet.
With a little hesitation, Clara tapped the screen. A photo of Bima appeared on a soccer field, wearing a jersey with the number 17, breathing heavily, but with a big smile. Under the photo was a short message:
"I got accepted on the city team, Clar. It's not the highest level, but it's enough to make me feel alive again."
Clara froze. Her chest felt warm and tense at the same time.
"He... is really chasing the ball again," she whispered.
Her thumb hovered over the keyboard screen, but no words felt right.
"I should be happy... right?" she thought. "But why am I afraid?"
She put her phone on the table and walked to the window. The rain left droplets on the glass, breaking the streetlight into fragile lines. Clara stared at her reflection there: her hair tied up haphazardly, her tired eyes, and her thin smile that looked more like a line of survival.
A few minutes later, she sat back down, phone in hand. This time she forced herself to read Bima's message again, slowly, as if she wanted to engrave every letter in her mind.
"I got accepted into the city team, Clar..."
In her head, Bima's voice echoed, mixed with memories of the past: the campus stands, the cheers of the audience, and the figure of Bima who always ran tirelessly, both on the field and in his life.
Clara typed a reply:
"Bim, congratulations. I'm so proud of you."
She paused. Something felt missing. Then she continued:
"But... are you sure you can do both? College and soccer?"
She reread it. The tone of her message sounded like that of a counselor, not the voice of a caring woman like Clara. She deleted the second sentence and typed again:
"Bim, congratulations. I'm proud of you. Tell me how it feels to be back on the field?"
This time, she pressed send.
A few minutes later, the reply came.
"Tired. My whole body hurts. But I feel more honest with myself. Like... this is the part that never really left my life."
Clara bit her lip.
"So all this time… he's been holding it in?"
She replied:
"If it makes you more honest with yourself, I support it."
The message was sent. But inside her, the unwritten continuation echoed:
"But I'm afraid you'll grow further apart. From me. From who you used to be."
That night, in her small, book-filled dorm room, Clara sat on the floor with a notebook on her lap. It had become a habit for her to write daily reflections—not only as professional practice as a prospective psychologist, but also as a way to organize the chaos in her mind.
She wrote:
"Bima is back to soccer. I know it's part of who he is. If I really cared, I should support him wholeheartedly. But there's a fear of loss: fear that he'll drown in his new world, and I'll just be a side story.
On the other hand, Aiden is also drifting away in his own way—busy with research, immersed in a world of technology and ethics that I admire but don't fully understand. I feel like I'm standing in two worlds that are constantly moving in different directions.
I learned in class that delayed decisions are often a form of defense mechanism: fear of making mistakes, fear of regret. Maybe that's me. A psychologist-to-be who understands the theory, but can't heal her own heart."
She put down her pen and stared at her writing for a long time.
"If I were my own client, I would definitely say, 'Clara, you have the right to choose your own life, not be a spectator in someone else's life.' But why does it feel so difficult?"
Her phone vibrated again. This time it was from one of her supervising professors: a reminder about a case report that was due the day after tomorrow. Clara straightened her back, her professionalism rising again.
The next morning, she started her day at the campus clinic. A young client sat in front of her, talking about her busy boyfriend, about her fear of being left behind, about her confusion over whether to hold on or let go. Clara listened attentively, taking notes, nodding.
"So, what you're feeling right now," Clara said softly, "isn't just about him being busy, but also about your uncertainty about whether you are important enough in his life. Is that right?"
The girl nodded, her eyes glistening.
"Yes, sis... I'm afraid that I'm just a side option. He has dreams, but I don't know my place in those dreams."
Those words pierced Clara like a mirror suddenly held up to herself. She swallowed slowly, keeping her voice steady.
"That feeling is valid. But you also have the right to ask, in a healthy way, about your place in his life. Because a relationship isn't a constant guessing game."
The session ended with a brief hug and a cautious smile from the client. As soon as the door closed, Clara leaned back in her chair and sighed deeply.
"It's easy to talk to other people," she muttered. "But when it comes to myself..."
The following week, Clara received a voice message from Bima. His voice sounded tired, but it contained a new spirit.
"Clar, my team had a trial match earlier. I didn't score a goal, but I made one assist. The coach said I'm starting to understand their playing pattern. It feels... relieved, even though my body feels like it's about to fall apart."
Clara played the message twice before finally replying with a video call. Bima picked up after a few rings. His face appeared on the screen—sweaty, hair messy, but with the smile she knew so well.
"Clara," he said, a little out of breath. "Sorry, I'm in the locker room. But I picked up because you rarely call."
Clara smiled slightly. "Am I interrupting?"
"When you call, it's never bothering me," replied Bima, half joking, half serious.
Clara was silent for a moment, then looked away.
"How does it feel?"
"Tired. But... this time, it's the tiredness I chose myself," replied Bima. "How about you? The clinic? College?"
Clara sighed. "It's intense. Full of cases, full of theories. Sometimes I feel like... I understand everyone else's patterns, but I don't understand my own."
"Why are you talking like that?" Bima tried to smile. "You're okay, right?"
Clara stared at the screen in silence for a moment.
"Bim," she said softly, "when you told me you got accepted into the team, I was happy. But also... scared."
"Scared?" Bima's brow furrowed. "Scared of what?"
"Scared you'll grow further apart," Clara replied honestly. "From me. From... what we used to have. We all have our own worlds now. You with soccer and college. Aiden with his research. Me with the clinic and patients. Sometimes I wonder... are we still in the same story, or just coincidentally appearing in the same chapter?"
Bima was silent. The sounds in the locker room, the laughter and shouts of his teammates, could be heard faintly in the background. He glanced briefly, then returned his focus to the screen.
"Clar... I'm scared too, actually," he admitted. "Scared of failing on the field. Scared of not graduating on time. Scared... that you'll really go on to a life that doesn't include me or Aiden."
Clara looked down, then lifted her face again.
"And I... still can't choose," she said, almost whispering. "Between you, Aiden, or... maybe, choosing myself first. Is that wrong, Bim?"
Bima sighed deeply, this time without trying to hide the exhaustion in his voice.
"From everything I've learned in life," he replied, "what most often destroys people is that they never choose themselves. So if you want to choose that first... I have no right to say it's wrong."
Clara was silent, her eyes glistening.
"But," Bima continued, "I also have the right to be honest about my dreams. Soccer, college, my future. Maybe, along the way, you'll see that my place in your life isn't what you imagined. Or maybe it's the opposite. We don't know."
"So what are we, Bim?" Clara asked, half in despair. "What are we?"
Bima smiled bitterly.
"We... are at a crossroads, Clar. You're at your crossroads. I'm at mine. Aiden too. Maybe, someday, our paths will meet again. Maybe not. But if you ask me now, I can only say: I still care. But I don't want to chase something that even you yourself aren't sure you want."
Those words stuck. Clara bit her lip, holding back the tears that were about to fall.
"So... we have to keep our distance for now?"
"Not 'have to'," Bima said softly. "But maybe 'need to'. So you can hear your own voice without the noise of mine and Aiden's."
Both of them fell silent. Only the sound of breathing and a small commotion in the background could be heard. Finally, Clara nodded.
"Bim…"
"Yes?"
"Thank you for being honest."
"You too," replied Bima. "Take care, Clara."
The call ended. Clara stared at the now-dark screen of her phone, as if it held the image of someone slowly walking away—not because of hatred, but because each of them had to pursue something unfinished within themselves.
That night, Clara wrote in her notebook again:
"Today, for the first time, I didn't just listen to other people, but also listened to myself. It hurt, like pulling a bandage off a wound that hadn't healed yet. But maybe this was the only way for me to stop living in confusion.
Bima chose to pursue his dreams again on the green field. And I... had to start daring to admit that my life wasn't just an orbit around other people's dreams.
I don't know if I'll end up walking in the same direction as Bima, Aiden, or maybe without either of them. But for now, I have to learn to stand on my own as Clara. Not 'Clara belongs to someone', but Clara who recognizes herself."
She closed the book slowly, hugged it to her chest, then looked at the night sky outside the window. The stars were covered by clouds, but Clara knew they were still there behind the darkness.
So too with her feelings: they weren't gone, just not yet clear in their final form. Clara stood at the crossroads, not as a girl who had to choose, but as a woman who had finally learned that she too deserved to be chosen—by herself.
***
(Time notation: several months after Bima officially joined the city team and Clara began to focus on her clinic and studies.)
Evenings in the city where Aiden was pursuing his master's degree always had their own rhythm: the sharp cold, the flickering lights of trams in the distance, and the sound of bicycle wheels occasionally passing under the windows of his dormitory. At his study table, two monitors were lit up: one displaying a series of codes and performance graphs for an artificial intelligence model, the other open on a social media page.
Aiden shifted his chair and rubbed his tired eyes. He had only intended to take a short break from his research report when a post appeared at the top of his feed: a short video from Bima's account.
The thumbnail was clear: Bima, wearing the number 17 jersey, running to meet a cross. Aiden suddenly held his breath unconsciously, then pressed play.
In the video, Bima made a very familiar move—a single touch to deceive the defender, then a cut-back pass to his teammate coming from the second line. Goal. The camera shook, the sound of cheers faintly audible. At the end of the video, there is a glimpse of Bima's face: sweaty, breathless, but his eyes burning with the same fire as years ago.
Under the video, Aiden reads the short caption:
"It's not a goal, but it feels like coming home. #MatchDay #17"
Aiden leaned back in his chair, staring at the screen for a long time.
"You really are back on the field, Bim..." he muttered softly.
His phone vibrated—an old friend from college sent him a message:
"Den, did you see Bima? Crazy, he's really playing abroad. When are you going to follow suit?"
Aiden stared at the message expressionlessly. His lips moved, but no sound came out.
"When will I follow, huh…" he repeated silently. "Even though I don't even want to compete anymore."
He closed the chat without replying, then looked back at Bima's video. There was a strange feeling—not the burning jealousy of the past, but more like a mixture of bitterness and relief.
At the end of the table, his research laptop was waiting. The deadline for submitting the draft publication was only two days away. Aiden turned to it, then sighed deeply.
"You're in two worlds now, Bim," he said softly, as if Bima could hear him. "I... am enough in one for now."
He got up and walked to the window. The cold air slapped his cheeks as he opened the window slightly. From the fourth floor, he saw the quiet streets, except for a few students returning from the library.
"I used to think I always had to chase after you," Aiden said softly, talking to his reflection in the glass. "If you got into the honors class, I had to get in too. If you won at the pool, I had to beat you. If you got an opportunity, I had to have something equivalent."
He fell silent, remembering the swimming finals, the POPDA, the U-19 soccer competition, the competition for scholarships and cum laude honors. It all felt like a marathon without a finish line.
"But now..." he wiped the dew on the glass, drawing a small straight line, "I think I'm tired of running according to other people's standards."
His cell phone vibrated again—this time a notification from his advisor:
"Don't forget the final revision of your predictive model. We have a presentation to the ethics panel next week."
Aiden read the message, then nodded to himself.
"Yes. This used to be my line."
He closed the window, sat back down in his chair, and pushed the social media tab aside. On the main screen, he reopened the code that had been paused earlier. His fingers began typing, this time more confidently.
But before he could fully focus, he opened an old chat window—a group chat between the three of them: himself, Bima, and Clara. The group had been silent for a long time, containing only brief conversations from the past, before everything fell apart.
After weighing his options for a few seconds, he finally typed in the private chat room to Bima.
Aiden:
"I saw your video. Cool, Bim. Congrats on getting back on the field."
Several minutes passed without a reply. Aiden was about to close the chat when a notification popped up.
Bima:
"Hey. Thanks. Didn't expect you to watch it."
Bima:
"I thought you were too busy with your artificial intelligence world."
Aiden smiled slightly.
Aiden:
"Your world is 'smart' too, except you use your feet. I use code."
Bima:
"Haha. Fair enough."
There was a moment of silence. Then Bima added one more message:
"Have you thought about trying again? Soccer?"
Aiden read the question twice. An old feeling tried to surface—the sound of the stands, the mud on his shoes, the burning sensation in his lungs when he sprinted. But what came next were other faces: the lecturer who believed in him, the research team that relied on his model, the prospect of publication and the ethical responsibilities he was building.
Aiden wrote slowly:
"I'm happy to see you there. But for now, I don't want my life to be divided by the same race anymore. I want to focus here first. On my path."
Typing...
Bima:
"I understand. Seriously. Maybe that's the difference between us now. But Den..."
Bima:
"I'm glad you can watch, even from afar."
Aiden stared at the words, then replied:
"I'll keep watching if you upload again. Don't stop sending videos."
The conversation ended there. It wasn't a full reconciliation, but it wasn't as cold as before either. It was more like two people who had finally stood on two different paths, without pushing each other.
Aiden exhaled deeply.
"Enough of being a spectator this time," he said softly. "And that doesn't mean I lost."
Then he really immersed himself in his research—not to run away from Bima, but for the first time, he felt like he was truly choosing himself.
***
A few weeks later, the atmosphere on campus felt different. Posters for an international conference on "Ethical AI for Public Health" were displayed in every corner of the faculty building. Aiden's name was listed in one of the parallel presentation sessions: "Predictive Models for Early Detection – Balancing Accuracy and Privacy."
That morning, Aiden stood in front of a small mirror in his dorm room, straightening the tie he rarely wore. On the table was a conference participant card with his name printed clearly on it.
"You used to wear a number on your back," he muttered as he stared at the card. "Now you wear a name tag."
His cell phone beeped—a message from Clara.
Clara:
"Den, I saw your college post about the conference. Congratulations. Sorry I can't join online, my clinic schedule is full today."
Aiden stared at the screen for a moment. A warm feeling crept in slowly.
Aiden:
"Thanks, Clar. It's okay. Your patients are more important."
Clara replied quickly.
"I'm happy to see you two... finally starting to walk your own paths."
Aiden clenched his jaw slowly.
"Us," he emphasized in his heart, "or 'you two'?"
But he didn't write it down. He just replied:
"I'm also learning to come to terms with it all."
After a brief pause, Clara sent another message:
"Den... do you ever feel guilty because you don't want to 'race' anymore?"
The question hit him softly. Aiden stared at the text for a long time, feeling that the sentence belonged not only to Clara, but also to himself.
Aiden:
"Often. I used to think that if I stopped competing, it meant I had lost. But now... I'm more afraid of continuing to run without knowing why I'm running."
Clara:
"So where are you running to now?"
Aiden:
"Not running. Walking. Slowly. To a place where what I do really feels important. To me. Not just for grades or recognition."
There was a pause before the reply came.
Clara:
"Those words... are magical to me now, too."
Aiden smiled faintly.
"I hope so," he thought to himself.
The conference was intense. In the presentation room, Aiden explained the model he had developed, diagram by diagram, while occasionally mentioning the risks of algorithmic bias and the importance of clear data permissions. During the Q&A session, a senior professor asked:
"How do you ensure that this model does not become a tool for discrimination against certain groups?"
Aiden took a breath, then replied calmly:
"We don't just measure accuracy, but also fairness metrics. More importantly, we involve a multidisciplinary team—not just data scientists, but also ethicists, doctors, and even representatives from the user community. This model does not belong to me alone. It must be tested from many perspectives."
After the presentation, several participants approached him to discuss the topic. In the crowd, he glanced at his phone screen—there was a notification from social media. Bima had posted a photo of his team after the game, this time with the caption:
"Not a starter yet, but got some playing time. Take it slow. #StepByStep"
Without thinking twice, Aiden liked it and wrote a short comment:
"Proud of you, bro."
A few seconds later, there was a reply:
"You too. Don't forget to send me the link to your presentation. I want to see it."
Aiden held back a smile.
"You watch me from afar, I watch you from afar. Fair," he muttered.
That night, after all the sessions were over, Aiden sat alone on a bench in the campus garden. The cold air began to creep in, but he felt comfortable there, accompanied by the garden lights and the occasional sound of footsteps on the gravel.
Many thoughts raced through his head: Bima with his green field, Clara with her counseling room, and himself with a screen full of code and graphics.
"I used to be jealous," he said softly to himself. "If you were successful, I felt I had to be more successful. If you ran, I had to run faster."
He sighed deeply.
"But now, I think... it's enough if we all reach our respective destinations safely. We don't have to finish together, we don't have to be on the same podium."
His phone vibrated again—this time it was a message from his advisor.
"Your presentation was good. But your journey has only just begun. Don't forget, technology without moral direction is dangerous. Choose carefully what you want to fight for."
Aiden read it slowly, then typed his reply:
"I understand. Thank you for your trust, sir."
Once the message was sent, Aiden stared at the night sky. The stars weren't very clear, but they were enough to remind him of one thing: everyone has their own orbit.
"Bima," he whispered, as if he were beside him. "You chase your dreams on the green grass. I'll stay here, among the code and unanswered ethical questions. This time, I won't come to take your place. I just want to be a witness, that you finally dared to be honest with yourself."
He looked down at his palms—hands that used to be accustomed to holding a ball, now more often holding a mouse and keyboard.
"And I... am also learning to be honest with myself."
A slight ache remained when he realized that between himself, Bima, and Clara, none of their relationships were truly "finished." But for now, he felt strangely calmer with his decision: not to enter the same arena again, not to force a new chapter in an old rivalry.
For Aiden, it's not about winning, but about letting go of the old right to always compare—and giving himself permission to live, not just compete.