A lone man sits in a locker room, clad in running shorts, a tank top, and track shoes. The warm, stale air clings to him, thick with resolve. His stare is vacant, but his mind is fixed—on the race, his race. This day is his. Victory isn't an option—it’s a certainty.
Adrenaline hums through his veins, yet his hands rest motionless. Expecting to see them tremble, he glances down, only to find them stiff—fingers tight, reluctant to extend.
“Must be my nerves,” he mutters.
The room answers with a hollow echo. Today matters. This is the road he chose. Running isn’t just something he does—it’s who he is. If there’s anything that will define him, it's this moment.
Then—anticipated, yet jarring—a voice cuts through the silence: “It is time.”
He rises and strides into a dim hallway. Ahead, a doorway spills light. As he nears it, the track reveals itself: open, waiting. The air greets him: bright but soft, almost dreamlike. No need to squint. No wind to fight. The temperature is flawless.
A perfect day to run.
He scans the empty arena. The oval lanes, the hurdles, the sprint lines; they’re impressive, sure, but not part of today’s story. Today is about endurance. His kind of race. The marathon.
Twenty-six miles, he tells himself. I’ve been through worse. I know how to suffer well.
He needs to stay sharp. The smart runner wins, not the fastest out of the gate. As he walks the perimeter of the field, headed for the start, he counts his breaths, steady and full. It’s all about control. Control now, chaos later.
His opponent is already waiting at the line. No surprise. Doesn’t matter.
You can stand there all day, but only one of us crosses that line first.
He steps into place, draws in the dry morning air, and casts a sidelong glance. The other runner catches it, holding his gaze with eyes that say the same thing: I didn’t come here to lose, either.
Good. It’ll make winning feel real.
He turns forward. Nothing exists now but the track. His breath. His pulse. The crack of the gun splits the stillness—
BANG!
—and they launch.
Hold. Hold. Not yet. His legs ache to burst forward, but he reins them in like wild horses. Let him burn out early. You’ve done this dance before.
Still, his stride lengthens. He’s moving faster than planned. Can’t help it.
The body always wants more than it should. Don’t give in.
A flicker of movement to his right—his rival, right there. Step for step. Neither one flinching.
It begins.
Mile one approaches. Time to push.
Control the tempo, own the race.
He lets the marker blur past, presses harder, his legs now fully alive. Blood courses through his body like a rising tide. The rhythm’s here—but something feels … off.
Too smooth. Too soon.
He glances right. His rival remains at his hip, perfectly in step. Like a shadow.
How? he wonders. Why is he still there?
They move as one—cadence, breathing, the quiet flex of competition. But deeper down, something stirs. A whisper of discomfort. Not in his legs. Not in his lungs.
In his thoughts.
Mile two slips away, swallowed by speed. He’s strong—stronger than usual. Too strong? Every pulse of motion feels electric. Euphoric, even.
Dangerous, he thinks.
This isn’t how it’s supposed to feel this early.
He pushes anyway.
If it’s going to unravel, let it unravel on my terms.
He edges forward, testing the air, the wind, his limits. I need distance. I need control. I need to break him. His rival remains beside him, unshaken, unworried.
And then—a glance.
The man turns, slow and measured, and smiles.
It lands like a strike to the chest.
He knows. He’s known all along.
There’s no fear in those eyes—only confidence. No strain, only calculation.
And suddenly, this isn’t about pace. It’s about survival.
Mile three. Mile four. Gone. The world shrinks. No crowd. No sounds. Just two sets of feet pounding the earth in sync, and a creeping sense that the track is stretching longer with each step, twisting into something unnatural.
By mile six, breath is no longer measured—it’s stolen. Taken in greedy gulps. His legs are tightening, not from exertion but from panic.
Something’s wrong.
His opponent still floats beside him. Untouched. Effortless.
This isn’t just a race anymore.
It’s a warning.
By mile eight, the pace turns savage. Neither yields. Each runner drags the other faster, hunting for fractures, for signs of slippage. They’re equals—on the surface. Fierce. Unbreakable.
But something isn’t right.
His opponent moves too cleanly. Too precisely. Fluid, inhuman. Wrong. He shakes the thought loose—no time for ghosts—but the man glances over.
A smirk.
Then, back to the road.
He heard that thought, the runner realizes. He felt it.
Despite the heat pouring off his skin, a chill rolls down his spine. Doubt doesn’t knock—it breaks in.
Can I even win this?
Quitting isn’t on the table. Not today. Not in this race. Still, the uncertainty lodges itself like a stone in his shoe—small, irritating, impossible to ignore.
Then—blur.
One moment, he’s clearing mile nine. A blink later—mile fifteen.
What happened?
He doesn’t remember miles ten through fourteen. Just … gone. Swallowed whole. His legs still burn. His lungs scream. But the stretch between markers has collapsed in on itself.
Push now. Run harder. Maybe run back into reality.
He widens his stride, digs past the pain. Muscles quiver under the strain. Sweat blinds him. He doesn’t care.
Nothing matters but the race. Just the race.
Mile seventeen looms.
His rival still beside him. Still smiling.
Why won’t he pass? Why doesn’t he end this?
Because he can. That smile says it all. He could end this.
And for the first time—true fear.
The thought spikes through him like lightning. He reacts on instinct—pours everything into his legs, launches forward. Not running now. Flying. Escaping.
Strides stretch. Feet barely touch ground.
Weightless.
Effortless.
For one brilliant second, he feels immortal.
And beneath that triumph, something dark stirs.
Too easy. Far too easy.
Like he's not running at all.
Like the ground is falling away.
That smile again. Crooked. Permanent. Dripping into his periphery like oil across a mirror.
His rival is still there. Still matching him. Step for step. Breath for breath.
Like he’s not racing—like he’s escorting him.
The realization slams into his chest: He’s never had to catch up. He’s only ever been keeping pace.
And suddenly—dread. Not creeping. Crashing.
It floods his lungs. Chokes every thought. No reason, no logic. Just the deep, primal certainty: something is coming.
And I’m not fast enough!
He pushes harder. Faster! Now! Go! The word bangs in his skull like a war drum.
Go! Go! GO!
But every step only buys him inches—and the fear is gaining.
Mile 20.
It flashes past, irrelevant. The line means nothing. Time means nothing.
Terror grips him like ice-water in his bloodstream. His control is gone—replaced by instinct. No pacing. No strategy. Just escape.
And yet—he holds a sliver back.
Something for the final stretch, he tells himself.
He risks a look—
Regrets it instantly.
The rival’s grin is wrong now. Bent and splitting like it’s peeling the man apart. Eyes too wide. No breath visible. No strain.
Just persistence. Eternal, effortless pursuit.
His heart threatens to crack from the pounding. Sweat pours into his eyes. His head feels like it might split from the pressure.
He’s not racing anymore.
He’s fleeing.
Mile 24.
Final stretch.
Everything inside combusts—raw, desperate, primal. He unleashes it all. No form, no grace. Just force.
A final, furious sprint. His body tears forward, flung like a stone from a sling.
And then—something changes.
A surge unlike anything he’s ever felt. Not energy—something else. Something other.
He’s not touching the ground anymore. He’s not moving through space, he’s moving away from something.
Behind him, he feels it—the grin, the footsteps, the closing of the gap.
And the worst part?
It’s gaining!
He screams—raw, primal, from a place beyond pain—and throws everything into the final charge. Bones threaten to splinter, muscles tear, lungs burn like paper, but he doesn’t stop. His rival is still there. Still matching him. Right beside him.
Always beside him.
The track narrows. Time slows. The world dissolves into heartbeats and footfalls. Ahead—the line. Marker 26.2. The end. Or the beginning.
One final push.
One last breath.
He surges forward—not running, not sprinting, but detonating. A human meteor crashing through resistance, powered by agony and need and fire.
And then—
Contact!
Chest meets ribbon. Reality fractures.
Light floods in. Blinding. Infinite. But not harsh. Not searing.
Warm. Soft. Pure.
He doesn’t fall—he floats. Suspended in the glow like ash on an updraft. The pain is gone. The roar is gone.
Only quiet.
Only peace.
Joy pours through him—not the adrenaline kind, but something cleaner. Something true. He smiles, involuntarily. He made it. He endured.
Then—a voice. Calm. Gentle. Timeless.
“I was never your adversary. Merely the fire that fueled your will.”
As the words settle into silence, the light thins to a gentle wash. His eyes adjust.
A ceiling above him—white, sterile, spangled with humming fluorescent panels.
He blinks. Breathes.
The bed cradles him. Machines murmur softly at his side.
He turns his head. A hospital.
Slowly, it all returns—not in panic, but with quiet clarity.
He had run.
He had survived.
And somewhere between the line and the light…
He had been remade.
He turns his head—slowly, stiffly—to the left.
There she is.
Curled into the corner of a chair, a blanket draped around her shoulders like soft armor. Hair tousled. One hand clutching his. Half-asleep, yet somehow—anchored.
Familiar.
Known.
His heart stirs.
He tries to move, to reach for her—to break the stillness between them—but only his fingertips twitch, sluggish and feeble, like wind brushing paper. He strains to speak. Nothing. Not even breath.
But he refuses to surrender to silence.
With pure will, he shifts his head again—just enough to pull at something deeper.
She stirs.
A small motion at first—a quiet inhale, a flutter of eyelids. The world holds its breath.
Her eyes blink open. Bleary. Slow.
She rubs her face.
Looks down.
And sees.
In an instant, her sleep vanishes. Her entire being lights up.
“Oh, my God! You’re awake!”
Tears break free, uninvited but unstoppable. She scrambles for the call button, mashing it again and again with trembling fingers, her other hand never leaving his.
“I thought you’d never wake up!” Her voice cracks between sobs and laughter. “It’s okay. You’re okay. Everything is going to be okay.”
And in that moment, he believes her.
She clutches his hand like a lifeline, as if trying to pour every ounce of love into him through the simple press of her palm. Her eyes—radiant, wet, wild with hope—are fixed on his like he’s her miracle.
The fog begins to lift.
Gently at first, like shadows receding at dawn.
And then—clarity.
Their shared life begins to flicker back into view. Laughter and years. Promises made in quiet rooms. Long drives and rainstorms. All of it finding its way home.
He remembers.
His lips attempt the shape of a smile. Fragile. Real.
Wife, his mind whispers. She’s my wife.
The race—the one he gave everything to, the one that nearly erased him—drifts to the edge of his memory. Even the moment of victory slips away, like a dream that resists recall.
But it doesn’t matter.
Because that triumph is now part of him—subtle and silent. Etched into his bones, folded into his breath.
He is here.
She is here.
And everything else can begin again.
Epilogue
We all run our own races—most of them unseen.
Some battles unfold not in stadiums or finish lines, but in silence, behind closed doors, inside restless minds and aching hearts. They are the marathons no one trains us for. The ones where the only witness is the ceiling above us and the voice inside that refuses to yield.
And yet… even in those private wars, we are not as alone as we think.
There may be someone—curled in a chair nearby, whispering hope while we sleep, refusing to leave when the world goes quiet. Someone who sees us not as broken, but becoming.
So keep running. Keep fighting.
Not every victory is loud. Some arrive as a breath. A blink. A hand in yours.
And sometimes, the race we didn’t know we were winning is the one that saved us all along.
Zachory "Mick" McAllister is a writer, electrical engineer, and U.S. Navy veteran, which means he knows his way around wires, waves, and the occasional existential crisis. Born in Reno, Nevada, he spent his formative years consuming DC Comics, Stephen King, and Orson Scott Card, unknowingly training for his future career in storytelling (and possibly surviving post-apocalyptic scenarios).
After navigating the high seas with the Navy, Mick transitioned into electrical engineering—because what better way to balance the chaos of creative writing than with the soothing logic of circuits? Though writing was an on-again, off-again endeavor, it always lingered in the background like an overenthusiastic sidekick waiting for its big moment. His first publication, Lost Soul, appeared at Subject And Verb Agreement Press.
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