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The hotel room was steeped in silence, yet Alireza could still perceive the lingering reverberations of the playing hall. The subdued whispers of spectators, the rhythmic clicking of digital clocks, the delicate rustling of score sheets being adjusted—all of it persisted in his mind like a residual hum. He sat motionless on the edge of his bed, his gaze affixed to the ceiling, struggling to anchor his thoughts to anything other than the immense psychological weight pressing down on him.
His phone vibrated for the tenth time in the past hour. He didn’t need to glance at the screen to recognize the sender. His father. The message would be predictable. Not an inquiry about his well-being, but rather an assessment—no, a critique—of his performance. Tactical oversights. Strategic miscalculations. Missed opportunities. Perhaps even an impassioned tirade about the injustice of being barred from the playing hall. A family disrespected , betrayed by the system .
A half-unpacked suitcase occupied the corner of the room—a stark visual metaphor for his uncertainty. He had arrived with objectives, aspirations, and the weight of expectations from not one, but two nations. His mother had urged him to be resolute. His father had demanded he make a statement. His sponsors anticipated victories. The fans sought brilliance. And Alireza? He wasn’t certain what he sought anymore.
He shifted his gaze toward the window, where Toronto’s city lights flickered like distant stars. There was an alternative path. Chess had once been his escape from economic hardship, but now? He had acquired a French passport, cultivated an interest in fashion design, and carved out a life beyond the confines of the 64 squares. He could make the decision—right now—to step away from the board permanently, to extricate himself from this relentless cycle of scrutiny, expectation, and disappointment.
And yet, here he remained.
He exhaled sharply, rubbing his face with both hands in a futile attempt to dispel the tension coiling in his chest. He didn’t need to review the tournament standings to comprehend the magnitude of his decline. Four consecutive losses. A catastrophe. Every elite player understood defeat, but this wasn’t mere losing—this was a freefall. For years, he had fought to ascend to the pinnacle of the chess world, but now, it felt as though he was watching his career unravel before his eyes.
His thoughts drifted back to earlier in the week—to the moment security had escorted his father out of the playing hall. The tension had been palpable. Low murmurs rippled through the other players. Arbiters scrambled to contain the situation. And then, later, Hikaru’s reaction upon hearing the news—a mixture of amusement and disbelief, immortalized in a photograph by an observant chess photographer. The image had circulated widely online, eliciting both humor and analysis, emblematic of the turmoil that had shadowed Alireza throughout the tournament.
After that round, Hikaru had crossed paths with him in the hallway, slowing just enough to ask, “You alright?”
Alireza had nodded, barely meeting his gaze. What else was there to say?
Now, isolated in the stillness of his hotel room, he found himself wishing he had responded differently. Said something. Anything. Maybe Hikaru had meant nothing by it, just a passing acknowledgment of the situation, but Alireza had felt something foreign in the moment—almost a hint of concern, of camaraderie. But that wasn’t how things worked in chess. It was a world of rivalries, not friendships. And yet, the thought lingered longer than it should have.
His fingers curled into fists before releasing again, the cycle repeating as he sat in contemplation. His body was still running on adrenaline from the latest game, but his mind felt stretched thin, like a wire frayed to its limits. He had spent so much of his career in control—of his play, his emotions, his public persona. But here, in this room, alone, with the weight of expectation pressing down, he wasn’t sure he had control over anything anymore.
He glanced back at his phone, still lighting up intermittently with new messages. Another sigh escaped him as he leaned back against the headboard, closing his eyes. The world expected him to fight. To claw his way back, to prove himself worthy of the pedestal they had placed him on. But did he even want to?
Tomorrow, another game awaited him.
Tomorrow, he would have to confront the question that loomed larger than any opponent across the board—did he still want this life at all?
–
The rhythmic scratching of pencil against paper filled the quiet café. Alireza sat hunched over his sketchbook, lost in the fluid motion of his own hand, shading folds of fabric, refining the contours of a jacket design he had envisioned days earlier. This was different from chess. The lines weren’t forced, the decisions weren’t scrutinized by a thousand faceless critics. It was his alone—an act of creation, not strategy.
Across the table, Hikaru stirred his coffee, watching him with an unreadable expression. “Didn’t peg you for an artist,” he mused.
Alireza didn’t look up. “It helps me think.”
Hikaru nodded. He had seen players unravel under pressure before. He had lived through his own versions of it. The headlines, the drama, the weight of expectation—it could bury you if you let it.
“I get it,” Hikaru said finally. “The pressure. The noise. The family stuff.”
Alireza’s pencil paused for a fraction of a second, but he didn’t say anything. That was fine. Hikaru had been around long enough to recognize when someone wasn’t ready to talk.
“The thing is,” Hikaru continued, setting his coffee down, “at the end of the day, you’re the only one sitting at that board. Not your dad, not your coaches, not the people online debating your every move. Just you.” His voice was measured, steady. “So at some point, you have to decide what kind of player you want to be. What kind of person you want to be.”
Alireza finally met Hikaru’s gaze. For all his bravado, for all the sarcastic Twitch antics, Hikaru wasn’t playing a character right now. He was just someone who had been there .
“You don’t have to be what everyone expects you to be,” Hikaru said, drumming his fingers on the table. “But you do have to own whatever choice you make.”
Alireza’s eyes flickered back to his sketchbook, to the unfinished lines of the jacket. The problem wasn’t just chess. It wasn’t even just his father. It was the fact that, for the first time, he wasn’t sure if this was his dream or someone else’s blueprint for his life.
He set the pencil down, exhaling through his nose. “I don’t even know if I like it anymore,” he admitted. The words felt foreign leaving his mouth, an admission he hadn’t allowed himself before.
Hikaru studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “Then maybe that’s the first thing you need to figure out.”
A silence stretched between them—not uncomfortable, just there . For the first time in a long while, Alireza didn’t feel completely alone.
–
The air inside the playing hall was suffocating, thick with the ghosts of blunders past, a heavy, invisible force that pressed down on Alireza’s chest. But worse than the air was the silence. The kind that didn’t just settle—it swallowed. It crushed. It filled every inch of space with the echoes of his failures, refusing to dissipate, looping over and over in his mind like a cruelly edited highlight reel of disaster.
He sat there, motionless, long after his opponent had left, staring at the wreckage on the board. The fallen king lay on its side, a mocking reminder of yet another loss. Another step toward total collapse. Another inch toward the question he was trying desperately not to ask himself.
What the hell am I doing here?
The game replayed itself in his mind with ruthless clarity. The handshake, cold and perfunctory. The ritualistic signing of the scoresheets, his signature unsteady. His opponent’s measured nod before disappearing into the growing murmur of voices. He barely remembered getting up from the table, but somehow, his legs carried him forward, past the rows of emptying seats, past the arbiters whispering among themselves, past the silent lenses of cameras poised to capture every flicker of emotion. The shattered remains of a prodigy unraveling in real time.
By now, the online world would already be ablaze. Chess forums dissecting his play move by move. Analysts speculating with their furrowed brows and knowing nods. The headlines practically wrote themselves:
Alireza Firouzja: A Flash in the Pan?
From Future World Champion to Irrelevance?
He could see the thumbnails already. Freeze frames of his face in moments of despair. Clickbait titles asking if his time at the top had already come and gone. They would show the worst angles, the moments where his posture slumped, his eyes went hollow, his hand lingered over a move he knew was wrong the second he touched the piece.
But none of that mattered right now. What mattered was the dull roar in his ears, the heat pooling beneath his collar, the sick weight in his stomach that made every step feel heavier than the last. He could already hear the conversations happening behind his back. The way the commentators would pick apart his losses, as if they understood the suffocating pressure of expectation. As if they knew what it felt like to be called a prodigy one moment and a disappointment the next.
Somehow, he made it back to his hotel room. The door clicked shut behind him, sealing him away from the world, but it didn’t bring the relief he had hoped for. The walls felt closer than before, pressing inward. His phone buzzed again. Another missed call from his father. The screen glowed insistently before he flipped it over, face-down on the desk. He couldn’t do this right now.
Exhaustion settled into his bones, but his mind refused to slow down. His eyes burned, but sleep was out of the question. Instead, he sank into the chair, staring at the unopened messages, the endless notifications. Then, as if on cue, his phone lit up with a name that didn’t make him recoil.
Hikaru: You alive?
For a moment, Alireza considered ignoring it. Letting it sit there like the rest. But instead, his fingers found the keyboard.
Alireza: Define alive.
The reply came almost instantly.
Hikaru: Breathing. Conscious. Not throwing yourself off a bridge over a bad tournament.
Alireza let out something that was almost—almost—a laugh. It wasn’t actually funny, but at least it cut through the fog in his brain.
Alireza: Not yet. But this might be the worst tournament of my life.
Hikaru: Candidates have that effect. Some guys bounce back. Some don’t.
He didn’t need to ask what category Hikaru thought he belonged to.
There was a long pause before the next message appeared.
Hikaru: Look, I could give you some speech about how it’s not over, how you just need to fight through it. But let’s be real—you already know all that. So let me just say this: You get to decide what this tournament means for you. It doesn’t have to define you. But you can’t just sit in that hotel room and let it crush you either.
Alireza stared at the words for a long time. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but no reply came. He wanted to believe it. Wanted to believe that this wasn’t the end, that he could claw his way back from this abyss. But right now, it didn’t feel like it.
Instead, he set the phone down, leaned back in his chair, and closed his eyes.
He would figure it out later.
For now, he just needed to breathe.
-
A few moments later, in another hotel room across the city, Hikaru’s phone buzzed again. He glanced at it and saw a message from Magnus.
Magnus: So, how’s he doing?
Hikaru swiped to reply, shaking his head slightly as he typed.
Hikaru: Not great. He’s taking it hard. Loss after loss, and I think the pressure is getting to him. His dad’s been calling nonstop, but Alireza just avoids it. He’s not even sure he wants to be here anymore.
There was a pause. Hikaru could almost picture Magnus reading the message, his ever-calculating mind piecing together the situation, deciding how much sympathy to extend.
Magnus: No surprise. The Candidates can chew you up and spit you out. But he’s not the first, and he won’t be the last. Just make sure he doesn’t quit on himself. He’s got talent, but it’s up to him how far he goes.
Hikaru: You’re not wrong. He’s young. He’ll figure it out, one way or another. But I don’t think he’s got anyone to shield him from the noise. His family’s involved, you know? Too involved.
Magnus’s response was quick.
Magnus: Yeah. I saw his dad got kicked out. That’s a whole mess. That kind of thing can break a kid if he lets it. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t have my doubts about his support system.
Hikaru: Yeah. I’ve been trying to talk to him, give him a place to vent. At least he’s listening. But this is tough. He’s caught between a lot of pressure, and it’s weighing him down. You remember what it was like—too many people telling you who to be.
Magnus: We all go through it. But some make it out stronger. Let him find his way. But remind him, it’s his decision. Not his father’s. Not anyone’s.
Hikaru read the words twice, then once more before replying.
Hikaru: Yeah. I’ll make sure he knows that. Thanks.
He put the phone down, exhaling slowly as he leaned back in his chair. It was strange—being the one to offer advice, to play the role of a mentor. In some ways, it felt like he was speaking from experience. He had been through the grind. He knew the weight of expectation. And, in some strange way, maybe he was the one who could help Alireza see a way out of it.
But only if Alireza was ready to hear it.
–
The opening ceremony unfolded in a cascade of flashing lights and animated conversations, yet Alireza couldn’t suppress the undercurrent of tension coursing through him. After the grueling intensity of the Candidates Tournament, every event felt like an extension of the same relentless narrative. But tonight was different. This wasn’t another battle waged under the shadow of his father’s expectations or the oppressive scrutiny of the chess world. Here, for the first time in a long while, he had space to breathe.
Across the room, Hikaru caught sight of him and approached with his characteristic ease, a smirk playing at the edges of his lips.
“Well, well,” Hikaru said, stopping in front of Alireza. “You survived the apocalypse?”
The comment hit home. His experience at the Candidates had been nothing short of disastrous—a sequence of missteps that had left him drained and questioning his own abilities. But here, in this moment, he allowed himself a sliver of levity. A wry grin tugged at his lips.
“Barely,” Alireza admitted.
Hikaru chuckled, leaning back slightly, giving him room to breathe. But they weren’t the only ones engaged in silent observation.
Magnus stood a few paces away, arms crossed, his sharp gaze sweeping the room with an air of quiet calculation. After a brief pause, he made his way toward them with the effortless confidence that always seemed to part crowds.
“You should have done better,” Magnus stated, his voice carrying an edge of detached scrutiny. “You’re better than this.”
Hikaru groaned, rolling his eyes. “Dude. Ever heard of tact?”
Alireza blinked at the bluntness. Classic Magnus—direct, unsparing, cutting straight to the truth. Yet, rather than triggering frustration, the remark struck him differently. Unexpectedly, he let out a short, genuine laugh.
“Yeah,” Alireza conceded, shaking his head. “Maybe I should have.”
Hikaru regarded him with a mix of amusement and curiosity. Instead of retreating into self-doubt, Alireza seemed almost liberated by the remark. The weight of expectation had not crushed him—it had merely crystallized his reality.
“Look at you,” Hikaru teased. “A little self-awareness goes a long way.”
Alireza shrugged, feeling a fraction lighter. “I guess I needed to hear that.”
Magnus studied him for a beat longer, then allowed the faintest smirk. “Good. I was starting to think you forgot how to laugh.”
Hikaru snorted. “Magnus, for the love of—can we have one conversation without you playing the grumpy old man?”
Alireza chuckled, the sound releasing a tension he hadn’t realized he was still holding. Despite their competitive history, despite the weight of their respective reputations, Magnus and Hikaru were here—not as opponents, not as external pressures, but as something else entirely. In the insular world of elite chess, that was significant.
He exhaled and offered a genuine smile. “Thanks,” he said softly. “I think I’m starting to remember why I play.”
Hikaru’s expression softened, just slightly. Magnus, ever the enigma, merely nodded in acknowledgment.
“Good,” Magnus said. “Now go win something.”
Alireza smirked. “Don’t worry. I will.”
–
Norway Chess carried an atmosphere unlike any other. Tournament pressure was nothing new, but this time, it felt different—heavier. The specter of his poor performance at the Candidates loomed large, a reminder of every mistake, every disappointment. His father’s absence echoed in his thoughts, a stark contrast to the chaos of the past weeks.
Magnus was here, always watching, always analyzing. But this wasn’t about mere competition anymore. Hikaru had ensured that much.
Upon arriving at the venue, Alireza had anticipated the usual sense of isolation—the cold detachment that often defined his interactions with the chess elite. But today, something had shifted. Maybe it was the presence of two individuals who, in their own distinct ways, had made it clear he wasn’t as alone as he thought.
From across the hall, Hikaru gestured to him over. Standing beside him, arms crossed, was Magnus, his ever-present smirk firmly in place.
“Look who finally showed up,” Magnus remarked. “Thought you were skipping the last round.”
Alireza gave him an exasperated look. “Just wanted to give you a chance to win,” he retorted.
Hikaru snorted, amused by their familiar dynamic.
“Don’t listen to him,” Hikaru said, leaning in conspiratorially. “He’s just mad because you’re beating him at everything except chess.”
Magnus shot him a flat look, but there was no true annoyance behind it. For all their past rivalry, when it came to Alireza, the two of them seemed strangely aligned.
Hikaru elbowed Alireza lightly. “So? What’s the plan? Another Armageddon disaster?”
Alireza rolled his eyes but couldn’t stop a small grin from forming. “I’m just trying not to lose to anyone else.”
Hikaru clapped him on the back. “Yeah, that’s tough when the entire world dissects your every move like it’s a matter of life and death.”
Alireza let his gaze wander over the hall, taking in the scene—the players preparing, the weight of expectation settling over the venue. A part of him still wanted to vanish into the background. But that wasn’t an option. Not anymore.
Hikaru followed his line of sight and turned to Magnus with a smirk. “You know, it’s funny. We’ve been rivals forever, but when it comes to Alireza… it’s like we’re his weird chess dads.”
Magnus raised an eyebrow. “I don’t like that analogy.”
Hikaru grinned. “Oh, come on. We both keep tabs on him. We’ve had serious talks about his future.”
Magnus sighed. “Fine. We’ve talked. But we’re not his parents.”
Hikaru glanced at Alireza, who rolled his eyes but felt an unexpected warmth at their words. They weren’t mentors in the traditional sense. But they were here. And that meant something.
As the round approached, the lightness of the moment faded, replaced by the gravity of competition. The pressure remained, but this time, something had changed. He wasn’t doing this for his father. He wasn’t chasing validation from fans or sponsors. He was playing for himself.
And for the first time in a long while, that felt like enough.
The clock ticked closer to the opening move, the familiar hush falling over the venue as players took their seats. Alireza glanced at his opponent across the board, took a deep breath, and reached for his first piece. The game was about to begin, but for once, he wasn’t just thinking about the outcome. He was thinking about the process, the love for the game, and the realization that no matter what happened, he wasn’t alone in this world of shifting strategies and relentless ambition.
–
The instant the game ended, Alireza barely registered Magnus extending his hand. His fingers clasped Magnus’s reflexively, the handshake a hollow gesture, entirely disconnected from the maelstrom of emotions surging through him. Disbelief, frustration, and self-recrimination battled for dominance in his mind, each more suffocating than the last. The blunder—that blunder—seared itself into his thoughts like an open wound. It wasn’t even a complex position. He had felt in control, maneuvered with confidence, and then—one lapse, a single instant of carelessness—everything unraveled in an instant, reducing his earlier precision to ashes.
His chair scraped harshly against the floor as he stood up with abrupt force, the grating sound momentarily cutting through the murmuring audience and the hushed voices of commentators dissecting his downfall. He didn’t spare Magnus another glance, didn’t meet the eyes of anyone in the room. The walls of the venue seemed to close in, the sheer weight of his failure pressing against his chest. He needed air—needed to escape before the disappointment swallowed him whole.
Magnus leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, watching Alireza retreating with unreadable eyes. The room still buzzed with activity—commentators whispering, analysts already crafting post-mortems, spectators exchanging theories in hushed voices. Chess engines churned out their unforgiving verdicts, reducing the game’s collapse to a series of cold evaluations and missed opportunities. No one cared about the human element—the heartbreak, the self-doubt, the crushing realization that the moment was gone forever.
A few feet away, Hikaru tilted his head, glancing at Magnus with an expression teetering between amusement and understanding. “So. You gonna do something?”
Magnus exhaled sharply through his nose, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off an annoyance. “Why is that my responsibility?”
Hikaru smirked. “Because you’re the responsible one.”
Magnus shot him a deadpan look, but any protest died before it reached his lips. Maybe Hikaru had a point. With an exaggerated sigh, Magnus pushed himself up from his chair and strode toward the exit.
Outside, the crisp Norwegian evening air wrapped around Alireza, but it did nothing to cool the frustration simmering beneath his skin. He sat on a bench near the venue, elbows resting on his knees, fingers digging into his scalp. The world around him continued, indifferent to his anguish—the occasional hum of passing cars, the distant chatter of pedestrians, the rhythmic tapping of rain beginning to mist against the pavement. The night felt vast and uncaring, and in this moment, he was utterly alone with his thoughts.
Magnus wasn’t good at this. He was a world champion, a relentless competitor, a perfectionist who thrived on precision and control. He wasn’t the kind of person who dispensed comfort or motivational speeches. And yet, as he stood there, watching Alireza drown in the bitter sting of defeat, he understood. He had been in that exact place before. He knew the feeling—the suffocating weight of a loss that couldn’t be undone, the way it gnawed at your self-worth and planted insidious doubts in your mind, making you question whether you ever truly belonged in the first place.
Magnus sighed and took a seat next to Alireza, leaning back against the bench. He let the silence stretch between them, allowing space for the sting to settle. After a long moment, he finally spoke.
“I’ve been there.”
Alireza didn’t react immediately, his fingers still threaded through his hair.
Magnus continued, his voice level but edged with something unspoken. “I know how it feels. Losing like this. Having it slip through your fingers.” He exhaled, gaze fixed on the pavement. “It’s… humiliating. Feels like the end of the world.”
Alireza let out a bitter laugh, his hands falling to his lap. “It’s not just the blunder,” he muttered, frustration thick in his voice. “It’s everything. The Candidates. The pressure. My own expectations. I don’t even know if I belong here anymore.”
Magnus frowned. “You wouldn’t be here if you didn’t.”
Alireza shook his head. “Doesn’t feel like it.”
Magnus studied him for a long moment. He knew the darkness Alireza was wading through—the way failure could twist itself into your identity, whispering that you were never good enough to begin with. It was an illusion, but in the aftermath of a devastating loss, it was all too convincing. He had spent years battling those same voices.
Before Magnus could formulate a response, another voice interjected.
“Yeah, well, if it helps,” Hikaru said, strolling up with three cups of coffee in hand, “this guy lost to me two days ago, so you’re not alone.”
Alireza blinked, startled. Hikaru handed him a cup with a casual nod before dropping onto the bench beside him, taking a sip of his own.
Magnus turned a flat, unimpressed look on Hikaru. “You are terrible at this.”
Hikaru grinned. “Hey, I’m just saying, even the GOAT takes L’s.”
Alireza stared at them both for a moment, then—against all odds—he cracked a small, weary smile. It was barely there, but it was real. A break in the storm.
Magnus huffed, shaking his head, but something in his expression softened.
“Great,” Magnus muttered. “Now he’s going to think losing is fine.”
Hikaru shrugged. “Losing sucks. But losing alone sucks more.”
Alireza let out a breath, the tension in his shoulders easing just a bit. Maybe they were right. Maybe he’d survive this after all.
–
If someone had told Alireza a year ago that Magnus Carlsen and Hikaru Nakamura would be the ones guiding him through the worst slump of his career, he would have laughed in their face. The idea was absurd—two of the most competitive and self-assured players in the world, notorious rivals, both known for their arrogance as much as their brilliance. Yet here they were, orbiting around him like two wildly different forces of nature. Both exasperating in their own ways, both unwilling to let him drown.
Magnus was brutally honest. He never sugarcoated his words, never softened his critiques. To him, chess was a matter of excellence, and anything less was unacceptable. “You’re being too passive in these positions,” he had said after one of their training games, his tone as sharp as ever. “You should’ve beaten me in that endgame, and you know it.” If Alireza had a bad tournament game, Magnus would be the first to remind him of every mistake in excruciating detail. “That was a garbage move. Why did you play that?” It wasn’t cruelty—it was precision, a relentless pursuit of perfection that Magnus expected from himself and, by extension, everyone around him.
Hikaru, in contrast, was chaotic but oddly insightful. His advice came in unpredictable bursts, sandwiched between self-deprecating Twitch rants and lightning-fast bullet chess speedruns. “Look, don’t overthink it. You’re going to have bad tournaments. It happens. The real test is what you do next.” When Alireza felt himself spiraling, Hikaru somehow knew exactly when to drop a well-timed joke or send a meme to break the tension. “At least you didn’t blunder mate in one today. Progress.” His methods were unconventional, but they worked in a way Alireza couldn’t deny.
It was like being coached by fire and ice—one unyielding in his expectations, the other unpredictable but just as demanding. They disagreed constantly, and Alireza sometimes felt like the child caught between two divorced parents with vastly different parenting styles. Magnus believed in discipline and rigorous self-critique. Hikaru believed in resilience and moving forward no matter what. Neither would accept mediocrity.
At first, Alireza resisted. He didn’t need mentors. He wasn’t some lost kid searching for father figures. He had built his career on his own, fought his way up the ranks without the luxury of a high-profile coach managing his every move. But after the Candidates, after the collapse, after months of doubt, he had to admit—if only to himself—that he was tired of carrying it all alone.
One evening, after a grueling day at Norway Chess, Alireza found himself in Magnus’ hotel suite, sitting across from the former world champion as they blitzed out games on a wooden board. Hikaru lounged nearby, sipping on some overpriced energy drink, watching the pieces fly with an amused expression.
Magnus frowned as Alireza sacrificed a sharp knight. “You’re playing too aggressively for no reason,” he muttered. “This is why you blunder.”
Alireza rolled his eyes. “Maybe I just want to have fun.”
Hikaru snorted from his chair. “Bold of you to say that after how much you complained about losing to Magnus earlier.”
“I did not complain—”
“Dude, you stormed out of the playing hall like you were about to throw yourself into the fjord.”
Alireza groaned and dropped his head onto the table. “Why do I even talk to you people?”
“Because we’re the only ones who get it,” Magnus said simply.
And for once, Alireza had nothing to say to that.
-
When Alireza and Hikaru switched places, after a few more rounds of blitz, Alireza watched as his two “chess dads” bickered over the future of classical chess.
“This format is dying,” Hikaru declared, sipping his energy drink. “No one wants to watch six-hour draws anymore.”
Magnus scoffed. “You say that, but you still play classical. And if it’s ‘dying,’ why do you care so much about being in the top rankings?”
“That’s not the point—”
Alireza chuckled, shaking his head. They were impossible. Yet, as he sat there listening to their bickering, something settled in his chest—a strange, unexpected comfort.
Maybe he wasn’t alone in this after all.
The tournament ended, and Norway Chess was over, closing an era of uncertainty. Alireza stood outside the venue, hands in his pockets, staring at the quiet Norwegian evening. The past year had been brutal—full of self-doubt, failures, and moments where he almost walked away. But somehow, through it all, he had made it through.
He exhaled slowly. Was he fixed? No. Did he have all the answers? Not even close. But for the first time in a long while, he didn’t feel like he was drowning. The weight wasn’t gone, but it was more manageable now.
His phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and glanced at the screen.
Hikaru: Good run. Keep pushing.
A second message appeared almost immediately.
Magnus: You played well. Should’ve been better, though.
Alireza huffed out a laugh, shaking his head. They really were insufferable—two of the greatest players in history, texting him like overbearing parents, offering unsolicited advice. But, oddly enough, he didn’t mind it.
He looked out at the horizon, the sky painted in soft shades of orange and purple as the sun dipped lower. The next tournament would come soon enough. The cycle would begin again. But this time, it was different.
This time, he wasn’t playing for anyone else.
This time, he was playing for himself.