⏱ ~3 min reading
The school cross-country race was held at the stadium in late May. The grass smelled of warmth and dandelions. Artem stood at the starting line and nervously shifted from foot to foot. Yaroslav, his best friend from second grade, stood nearby.
They trained together. They ran in the park after school, counted laps, drank water from the same bottle. The coach said:
"You two are like one team. Only in competitions it's every man for himself. Remember.".
Artem nodded. But inside, something small and not very nice whispered to him: "If only you had come first. If only it weren't for Yarko.".
At the start, the guys looked at each other.
"Let's run honestly," said Yaroslav.
"Let's run," Artem answered.
A whistle blew.
For the first three hundred meters they ran side by side. Artem heard Yarko breathing—evenly, calmly. Artem tried the same. But somewhere in the middle of the distance, Yaroslav barely added. Artem saw his back, his blue sneakers, how they rose and fell.
«Don’t fall behind,» Artem told himself. But his legs were getting heavier, and Yarko was getting smaller and smaller—further and further away.
When Artem reached the finish line, Yaroslav was already standing there, wet, red, with a medal in his hand. The coach was squeezing his shoulder.
Artem stopped. His throat was tight. His chest felt hot and a little uncomfortable.
And then Yaroslav saw him. He ran up.
— Artem! Third! You're third! The coach said so!
Artem looked into his friend's face. It was shining. Really. Like the sun over the stadium.
And then something inside Artem turned upside down. That small and not very good thing suddenly became unnecessary. He saw a friend — not a rival, but simply Yarko, with whom they had run together so many times, counted laps, shared a bottle of water.
Artem held out his hand.
"Yarku, you're doing great. You really are the fastest. I'm proud of you.".
Yaroslav was confused for a second. And then he grabbed Artem by the shoulders — wetly, awkwardly, in a boyish way.
"Thank you. We trained together. This is your medal too.".
"Well," Artem laughed. "It's yours.".
After the competition, the boys were walking home through the park. Yarko clutched his medal in his fist. Artem carried his third-place certificate, rolled up into a tube.
"Listen," Artem said on the way. "I was almost sad that you were the first. And then I looked at you - and for some reason I felt happy.".
— Why?
"Because you're my friend. If you're happy, so am I.".
Yaroslav stopped.
"You know," he said quietly, "I'd be more worried if you were upset. That's worse than losing.".
They walked on. Poplar fluff flew in the air, like small white snowflakes in May. And at home, Artem told his mother about cross-country skiing and added:
"I came third. But in reality, I also won. Only differently.".
Mom didn't ask what exactly. She understood.
💡 Being happy for a friend is also love.