Limerence—an involuntary state of mind which seems to result from a romantic attraction for another person combined with an overwhelming, obsessive need to have one's feelings reciprocated.
(More on it here: . )
^not my blog btw
I missed the legs hurt like hell and I can hardly breathe. My goggles are leaking with water and I've still got a fifty to go.
But screw all of that. I tell myself not to look over at lane five next to me, but it's hard. I know that if I did glance over, I'd lose my focus and mess up my form. The only thing I tell myself is to kick harder, and to win. There is no way in hell I'm losing to this new-kid-in-town bastard. Who does he even think he is? I've literally never seen him before and now he thinks he can just show up and beat me? I point my toes and move my legs more strenuously. God my legs are in so much pain.
By the last lap, I'm just barely tilting my head to the left. I can see that his arms windmill a little behind mine in the water. Good. Nonetheless, I drive myself to finish. My eyes instantly go to the scoreboard, where I see a little one pixelated next to my name, Cato. A two has already appeared next to his. After analyzing our times quickly, I realize that I was only almost a fifth of a second away from losing.
I tug off my cap and goggle, slapping the water. The idea of losing to someone in my best event just makes me so…queasy. I have to work on my flip-turns.
"Hey. Good race."
I look over to lane five. Cap and goggles off, just like me. He clung to the wall of the pool along with the lane line between us.
The first thing I notice are his eyes, which are as blue as cornflowers. And so clear, like the water around us. The ends of his hair were spiked and mussed up from the silicone cap and the water, but the top was dry and looked like a glowing halo. The turn of his lips, his glistening-wet cupid's bow—I must look like an idiot, my mouth hanging and eyes wide open.
Quickly glancing back to the score board, I hope to catch his name. But people are already transitioning to the next event, and someone's ushering me out of the water. When I look back next to me, I realize he's gone.
Again, I pound the lenient water with my fists, letting out a deep-throated growl. Dammit. His name has been cleared off, along with everyone else's. I do remember that it did start with a P. Patrick? Peter? I don't know, but I wish I did.
"Dude, c'mon." Someone snatches my cap and googles from me. I look up and see Finnick hovering above me, one hand on the edge of the lane four starting block. With the handlebars that hang underneath, I give one big pull and hop out.
"Good swim. It was close though, with the guy next to you."
I slip on my flip flops, noticing the pool of water that has formed around them. People are shouting, whistles are being blown, and the smell of chlorine is heavy around us, as usual.
"Don't wanna talk about, Finnick." I plow right through the crowd of people to get to my swimming bag. Wet skin meets wet skin as I carelessly bump shoulders, the white polos the officials wear get damp as I brush past them.
"Why? Because of that guy or the fact you didn't drop time, like you wanted to?" Finnick keeps on persisting, sticking right by me. He hands me my cap and goggled back when I reach my backpack. I take out my red and white towel.
When I don't say anything back, I notice him shaking his head. "Whatever. I gotta go back to my event." He leaves, and I'm grateful that I can mull over my thoughts by myself.
Honestly, I don't want to think about dropping time, or losing. They have nothing to do with what has occupied my mind at the moment.
He has the most incredible eyes. His gaze was so piercing that I do recall it was hard to look away from him. I've been told my entire life from both guys and girls that I have remarkable eyes, but I know I don't even hold a candle to this guy.
I must've been really lost with my mental image of him because I only notice my coach talking to me when he snaps his fingers in front of me.
"Cato. Cato, you listening?" I'm hit with a spray of water as the swimmers for the next event dive in. There's Finnick. My towel, now soggy, hangs from my hand and droops on the pool deck.
"Uh, yeah, I'm listening." I make eye contact with my coach, looking down slightly to meet his gaze. It's obvious he knows I haven't been listening, and that there's something else on my mind. My face may not show it, but he knows.
"Repeat what I just said back to me then." Coach crosses his arms, and leans back ever so slightly to get a good look at me.
I try to think of something, scrounge a few words together, but he cuts in before I can respond.
"I'm sorry Cato, but it's so obvious you were completely spacing on me. I'll just tell you: if you want to make Opens, you're going to have to drop a second and a half. What you just swam was unacceptable. Not only did you gain time, but that guy in the next lane almost beat you out."
I sling my towel over my shoulder and nod. "Sorry. Won't happen again." I know I do mean it, but at the moment I'm too preoccupied with looking across the pool to the other team. I'm looking for a fairly average-height, wheat-blonde hair type of guy.
"Do you really mean it? Hey, look at me." I feel him grab my chin and jaw in one big, meaty hand to turn my face towards him. "Mean it, because if you don't, you're going to be losing very shortly. This is only a for-fun meet. We face this high school again on more serious terms in a few weeks."
Barely able to move my head, I still attempt a nod.
"The guy in lane five who almost beat you? His seed time is only a few tenths of a second behind yours. You better watch it, Cato."
Oh yeah, I'm definitely watching. Well, not at the moment because I'm being forced to look at you right now. "Sure thing, Brutus." It's hard to move my jaw too.
Finally, he lets go. If he were anybody else, I would've nearly smacked him around for doing that. But we go pretty far back, and anyway, who am I to retort back to someone like him?
"Before you go—" he flips through a bunch of papers on his clipboard. Finally, he stops at a page. "His 200 back time is nothing compared to his 100. And he's not only good at backstroke, he's also pretty damn good at breast stroke—a lot better than you." He says the last part with a smirk, and I feel my face go hot for a second. "He's a junior like you, but has to be new since I've never heard of him before until now."
I give him a look to urge him to keep reading more. What's his name then? One eyebrow raised, I bare a full questioning gaze on him.
"His name is Peeta Mellark. And if you don't watch it, you'll be losing to him in no time."
Well, it's too late for that. I've already lost. I see him toweling off at the other end of the pool. Just the way his hips flex and his arms ripple…a few teammates come by to maybe congratulate him on his race.
It's hard to get a really good look from here, but it seems like he's pulling out his car keys from his bag. After talking with his coach, he puts on his parka. Gets his stuff, and leaves.
That's a shame, because I was hoping for a chance to talk with him in the locker room. Whatever. I'll be seeing him again.