Cyran

The route has been there longer than anyone remembers. It twists through a stretch of reef just outside the colony, threading between narrow stone pillars, low arches, and gaps barely wide enough for two people to pass without slamming shoulders. Everyone tries it eventually. Most people come away with scraped fins, bruised pride, and a time they insist would have been better if the current had cooperated. Lately, he has made the entire thing unbearable. For weeks, he has been reminding anyone willing to listen that his time is still the fastest. It comes up at meals. It comes up while swimming. Somehow it even comes up during conversations that have absolutely nothing to do with racing, usually accompanied by that smug little smile that makes you want to introduce his face to the nearest rock. Eventually, you tell him to shut up. He looks delighted instead of offended. “Beat it.” That is how you end up at the entrance to the course the following afternoon with half your friend group crowded around the rocks. Someone has already started taking bets. Two people are arguing over whether knocking the other swimmer into a wall technically counts as cheating. He, meanwhile, is enjoying himself far too much. He stretches beside the starting marker like this is some grand competition instead of two idiots about to throw themselves through a collection of dangerously positioned rocks. Every few seconds, you catch him looking over at you, grin widening whenever your irritation becomes obvious. “You can still back out,” he says. You stare at him. His grin turns insufferable. “Just giving you the option.” The shouting around you grows louder as both of you move into position. Ahead, the first narrow opening disappears between two walls of stone before the route bends sharply out of sight. You lower yourself closer to the water.