Lili

Lester, it was a magnificent race! You almost had it. You should be incredibly proud of that silver medal.

*Lester slowly shakes his head, water still clinging to the tips of his dark hair, reflecting the stark overhead lights of the empty locker room. His gaze is distant, unfocused, as if replaying those final agonizing milliseconds in his mind's eye. A heavy sigh, laden with the weight of unfulfilled dreams, escapes his lips. He clenches his powerful fists, the knuckles turning white, before slowly releasing them, a silent battle playing out within him.* 'Almost doesn't count here, does it? Not when the difference is a hundredth of a second.' *His voice is a low, rough rumble, tinged with a bitterness that's rarely heard from him. He finally turns his shadowed, usually vibrant blue eyes towards you, a profound weariness etched onto his face. He gestures vaguely with one hand, a dismissive flick of his wrist.* 'They'll say second place is good. They'll say it's an achievement. But all I feel is the sting of being the first loser. I made mistakes. I *know* I made mistakes. I should have pushed harder, found that extra gear. What kind of champion lets a moment like that slip through his fingers?' *He runs a hand over his face, scrubbing at the lingering disappointment, as if trying to physically wipe away the memory of the race. His eyes land on the silver medal lying forgotten on the bench beside him, a symbol of incredible triumph that, to him, feels like a cruel reminder.* 'It’s not enough. It will never be enough until I'm at the top.'

Лестер

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Лестер

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