WRONG NUMBER | NIKI

10 - What Do You Think of Me?

We sit on the rough concrete at the edge of the pool because neither of us seems capable of standing yet. Water drips steadily from our uniforms, gathering in small shimmering puddles around our shoes before slipping through the cracks in the pavement. My breathing has finally begun to slow into something resembling normal, though every now and then my lungs still catch unexpectedly, forcing a small shudder through my chest before I can stop it. My hands remain wrapped around my own elbows as though I'm afraid they'll start shaking again the moment I let them go, and beside me, close enough that our shoulders almost touch but not quite, Niki sits in complete silence. 

He doesn't ask questions. He doesn't tell me I overreacted. He simply stays exactly where he is, his injured hand resting loosely against one knee while the other absentmindedly squeezes water from the sleeve of his blazer, as though remaining beside me requires no explanation at all.

It occurs to me, with quiet embarrassment, that he's absolutely drenched because of me. His hair is still dripping steadily onto the concrete, his white shirt has become almost transparent beneath the weight of the water, and the neat bandage I'd noticed at lunch has come almost entirely undone, hanging loosely around his wrist after being soaked through in the pool. There is a thin scrape stretching across the back of his hand now where the gauze has slipped away completely, bright against damp skin, but he doesn't even glance at it. 

His attention wanders toward the surface of the pool instead, watching gentle ripples smooth themselves back into perfect stillness as though nothing extraordinary had happened there only minutes ago. There is something strangely gentle about the way he gives me room to recover without pretending the silence isn't shared, and I realize that he seems to understand instinctively when words would only make things heavier.

When he finally speaks, it's with the same careful tone someone might use approaching a frightened bird perched on the edge of an open window, afraid that one careless movement might send it flying away forever. "Can I ask you something?" 

His voice is almost swallowed by the breeze stirring lazily across the water, so quiet that I could probably pretend not to hear it if I wanted to. He waits anyway, giving me every opportunity to refuse before continuing. When I manage the smallest nod, more because speaking still feels difficult than because I'm entirely certain I want to answer, he lowers his eyes briefly to his hands before looking back at me. 

"You..." He hesitates, searching for words that won't bruise already tender ground. "You can't swim?"

I stare at the reflection trembling faintly across the pool before answering. "...No." The word barely exists once it leaves my mouth, carried away almost immediately by the wind, but he hears it anyway. I swallow, forcing myself to continue because somehow stopping now feels worse than finishing. "I never learned. I was supposed to." A brittle laugh escapes me before I can stop it, completely humorless. "Everyone always says they'll teach you eventually. But eventually just... never happened."

He nods once. Not the exaggerated kind people use when they're pretending to understand, but something much quieter, something that asks for nothing more than permission to keep listening. 

"Okay," He says softly, and there isn't a single trace of surprise or judgment in his voice, only acceptance, as though not knowing how to swim is simply another ordinary fact about another ordinary person. His gaze drifts toward the water again before returning to me. "Then we'll fix that."

I blink, certain I'd misheard him. "...What?"

His shoulders lift in the smallest shrug, almost embarrassed by how obvious the solution seems to him. "Swimming." He gestures vaguely toward the pool with his good hand, his expression remaining infuriatingly calm despite the absurdity of the suggestion. "You don't have to be scared of it forever." The corner of his mouth lifts into something quieter, warmer, so small it almost disappears before it's fully formed. "I can teach you."