During the school sports day, I got roped into a relay race. While warming up, I ran into F and was super nervous. He promised to cheer for me. I pointed to the bleachers by the starting line and told him, "You and my brother stand there later, okay?"
He said, "Okay."
Before the race, I got in line, stood on the track, and looked back to find them—both gone! I asked the people nearby and they said the teacher had called them over to the high jump area.
When the starting gun went off, the whole stadium was roaring with cheers. My head was a mess and I was so nervous my stomach hurt. I was the second runner. As the first runner neared the handoff point, I instinctively turned back—and couldn't believe my eyes. He was standing exactly where I told him to be.
In that moment our eyes met, all the anxiety disappeared.
He later said, even at such a critical moment, I still had the energy to wave at him like an idiot. But I didn't remember that at all—I only remembered feeling so happy when I saw him standing there. It's strange. When I was younger, I wasn't as content as I am now. I was afraid of disappointment, so I never dared to hope for anything. But I trusted him—deeply. No one had ever made me feel so safe.
Later, I found out he failed the first attempt at the high jump. I asked if he did it on purpose. He said I was overthinking it.