Aliya had gone out of her way to avoid Aly, but in a foreign, Western land, how easy was it to keep the girl out of her mind? She found herself reminded of the girl at every turn. The funny muesli bars of different flavours, that coffee place with the strange Star-something name, and even the colour white on the Union Jack reminded her of Aly's soft team jacket. She found her mind linking everything around her to the girl she broke. It was painful, it stung, and it ripped her apart.
She remembered the way Aly's face contorted into a wounded smile the moment she said what she said. She remembered seeing the girl crouch over her knees, rubbing her arms to soothe the pain away. She remembered seeing tears well up in her eyes, sadness and torment written all over her face. She hated the way Aly looked then. She hated her seeing her like that. Most of all, Aliya hated herself for being the cause of that anguish in her. She hated being the heartbreaker, because she knew the full extent of the pain the heartbroken had to endure.
She knew that Aly should not want anything to do with her from now on, and maybe it was for the better. Maybe with Aly far from her reach, she could focus on gymnastics and bagging the gold. Perhaps Aly was a distraction that she needed to get rid of. Well, good riddance, American.
Alas, she couldn't help but feel empty without her American. There was no reason at all left for her to walk a little slower past the American team's table at breakfast. There wasn't a reason for her to look out for that silly bun in the canteen any longer. There wasn't a reason to look over to the lockers by her team's. Aly was fighting, but Aliya wasn't doing the same. After all, after she'd severed their ties, she had no right to fight so hard for Aly anymore. for her to fight so hard anymore.
Why did I let her go?
Aliya slammed her locker shut, much to the annoyance of the Japanese team walking past. She shot them a glare and returned to packing her bag.
But what about Nichole?
Aliya knew that she was starting to be attracted to her, too. Funny how she wasn't as cold as she'd expect her to be. Nichole's icy exterior was shed to reveal a much warmer, more human even, interior. She cracked jokes, hushed Aliya's laments, and talked about herself. She was more human than anyone would ever have expected her to be.
Nichole was beautiful, and Aliya felt lucky to be possibly the only person to ever get the chance to dwell in her splendour. Her sharp features, blond hair and petite frame made the skin on Aliya's neck tingle, and her tummy to flip. The way she flipped her hair, raised her left eyebrow and scoffed at everyone infuriated Aliya so, but she couldn't help but feel so attracted to her. Nichole Girard was cold, mean, and ruthless, but Aliya found herself falling harder for the girl with every look.
Aliya had spent her free time in the past couple of days with Nichole. They did stupid, trivial and frivolous things together. They talked about France, Russia, school, friends, parents, and the like. They talked about movies and books, recommended each other songs, and taught each other their languages. They fascinated the other with their country's history, their culture and traditions. When they ran out of things to talk about, they just sat with each other, one hand in the other, enjoying the majesty of London.
Aliya felt so comfortable around Nichole. They felt like long-lost friends, lovers even. They could talk about anything and sit in the most comfortable silences. Nichole Girard wasn't cold, mean, or ruthless. Nichole was like her – afraid, confused, and alone. They found a much-needed sense of familiarity in each other.
Nichole was different from Aly. The American couldn't help but talk about herself. She went on and on about the banal routines in her superficial life. She talked about herself and only herself. Aliya couldn't find quiet in the girl, she just saw a head so cluttered and noisy. She loved listening to Aly, but she couldn't stand how the girl seemed to be unable to shut up for a while. Aly felt the need to fill all their silences with random interjections, and questions about her well-being. Couldn't the American understand that silence is golden? The two of them were on opposite ends of the pole, but perhaps that was what made them clique. Their differences fit together so unexpectedly, but they intertwined so well. The two of their personalities clashed to form one medley of colour and sheer perfection.
Then again, Nichole was different from Aly, because Aliya didn't love her. Yes, Nichole made her heart sing, her knees to go weak, and her tummy to flip. But she didn't have the same effect Aly did. Aly drove her insane, but she made her heart belt sopranos with such gusto, her knees to melt right beneath her, and her tummy to perform triple Arabians.
What Aliya couldn't understand was why. Why was the American the one to have such a jarring effect on her? Surely she didn't think what the two had wasforever, did she? She wanted to love Aly, yes, but to love her forever? That was a whole other story. Things would change, and they will drift apart, so why not just exist as two separate people now, right?
But Aliya knew that she could not. She wanted Aly in her arms first thing in the morning, and last thing at night. She wanted to see her smile every single day, and be there to dry every tear she shed. She wanted to fight with her, laugh with her, and make love to her. She just wanted Aly and her to exist as one. All Aliya wanted was for Aly to be hers.
Aliya zipped her bag up and slung it over her shoulder. Perhaps some time alone on her laptop would clear her mind.
—
Aliya trudged back into her room and was met with silence. Bee's probably in the lounge prowling for guys again. She rolled her eyes at the thought of Maria in the lounge, her legs draped over the side of one arm of a chair, surveying the male swimmers from all over the world. She padded up to her bed and threw her backpack on the floor next to the mirror.
As she reached out for a bottle of water, a white, rectangular envelope on the table caught her eye. Maybe it's the schedule for next week. Nonchalantly, she reached her hand out towards it and picked it up. Strange, it's unopened. Aliya flipped it over and the text in block letters on the front, written so meticulously, stopped her short.
ALIYA MUSTAFINA
She raised both eyebrows and stuck her bottom lip out. Aliya was confused; Mama and Papa could always Skype with her, and her friends back home knew that they could contact her online. This envelope didn't even have an address or a stamp, so it must have been from inside. How strange indeed.
Curiosity got the better of her and she tore the envelope open, discarding the empty envelope onto the floor. She unfolded the letter, and her heart leapt to her throat. The letter was in English, not Russian. Immediately, she knew whom it was from. Aliya clenched her teeth and swallowed the lump in her throat. Fuck.
—
Dearest Aliya,
You said you wanted to keep your distance from me, and I will do that. This will be my last means of contact with you, that I can promise you. I am writing this to tell you my side of everything. I know that you will not want to listen to me, and I know that I cannot face you. I guess that this is how I'll have to do it. So please, Aliya, give me this chance.
Ever since that day, I've just been thinking. I've been thinking and thinking and thinking, and frankly, I don't think I'm quite done. I have so many things I wanted to say, so many ways I wanted to defend myself – defend us, but I couldn't. I didn't say anything because I couldn't. I felt shocked, betrayed, and very angry with you. But what could I do about it?
All I could do was watch you. I watched you say that you want to be strictly competitors. I watched you say that it was all enough. I watched you as you broke my heart. But really, I watched you lie. You don't want to be away from me as much as I don't want to be away from you. I watched the colour drain from your face as I stepped back instead of accepting your goodbye. I watched your eyes shift as you told me those things. I watched it all, Aliya. It happened right before me and I know that you hated yourself.
Of course, I hated you, too. I still hate you now, or at least, that's what I tell myself. You're no good for me. You cause me pain and joy. You make me happy and sad and furious and confused. You make my skin tingle and my tummy to feel all funny. I like the feelings you give me. It makes me feel fresh, alive – me. I haven't felt like that in a long time, and you gave it all to me.
Then you took it all away. Why? Why the hell would you do something like that to me? What did I do to you? What did I do to deserve this? Please, Aliya. I need an explanation. I need something more than your stupid, cruel, pathetic excuse for an explanation. Stop saving yourself and come save me. I'm hurting. I need you to tell me why. Please.
When I came to London, I just wanted to focus on gymnastics, but now I don't. I just want to see you. I wake up every morning this past week and all I want is to see you. I want to see you at training and breakfast and dinner. Anywhere, really. I find myself constantly wanting to find you. This is what you've done to me. You've made me unfocussed and lovesick. I feel so disgusted with myself. My need for you makes me sick to my stomach, but shit, it gets me out of bed in the morning.
I guess now you're not just Aliya, World Champion to me. You're Aliya Mustafina, Russian beauty, a godsend. An imperfectly wonderful godsend. You're a miracle. You make me want to sing, soar and sigh. You hold the key to my heart. If I never get the chance to say this in person, I just want you to know that I love you. I don't know if it's the London fog or the adrenaline, but Aliya, I want you to know that right now, I love you.
So, I guess this is it. This is all I want to say. I've just poured my sad American heart out to a fucking Russian bitch (I'm sorry). You can go laugh about it with your friends. Chances are, I might laugh at this eventually, too. One day we should meet up and have a hearty good laugh over this letter, huh? Maybe then I can finally see you again. But for now, this is it.
Goodbye, Aliya.
Alexandra Raisman
—-
Aliya looked at the tear-stained letter through clouded eyes. She ran her fingers over the passionate strokes of Aly's pen and imagined the girl crouched over her desk scribbling this letter. She surveyed the penmanship and noted how every 'g' and 'y' had an elaborate curl at the bottom. She reread the words she didn't quite understand. There were three specific words she knew very well, and yet she read them over and over again.
I love you.
Aliya looked at the letter again, and found herself confused. She was confused as to why the word 'love' had been smudged by a fresh teardrop.
—
In this foreign, Western world, what Aliya knew she needed most was familiarity. She had folded the letter and tucked it into her jacket pocket right by her left breast, close to her heart, and headed out to the minimart downstairs. She strolled down the chocolate aisle, looking for the chocolate that her mother used to give to her whenever she threw a tantrum. She picked up the Milka bar, but set it down again. Instead, she continued to roam the minimart, searching for some comfort food.
Aliya stopped in front of the cereals and huffed. English speakers and their five hundred thousand types of grain. She picked up a snack-pack box of cornflakes and shrugged. This looks safe. Aliya stepped back and started to turn when she heard a screech and something hard collided against her calf.
She spun around at the sound of uncontrollable giggling and was all ready to give the inconsiderate jerk a piece of her mind when she heard an angry 'Mack!' Aliya first saw a silly bun, then a soft, white team jacket, and finally, a pair of soft, apologetic eyes. At that moment Aliya's heart belted sopranos, her knees melted beneath her, and her tummy performed triple Arabians.
The girl gave a small smile and started to turn around. Get her. Suppressing all her pride and summoning all her courage, Aliya blurted, "So, you like cornflakes, too?"