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When I was about five, my mother took me to the hospital. She held my hand so tightly I could barely feel my fingers. After we came home, she gave me a notebook—small, cloth-bound, with silver-stitched waves on the cover.
“You forget things easily,” she said. “So write down everything, right when it happens.”
And so, I’ve kept writing.
Today is Wednesday. I wore a black shirt and a white jacket. Breakfast was toast and a fried egg. Ocean sat with me on the school bus. He’s a boy with long hair. I gave him a hug, and his face turned red.
Thursday. Blue shirt, white jacket, toast and egg again. Sitting next to me was Sea—short hair, very smart. She gave me a sunflower. I stared at it for a long time, until she laughed and said it was just a chocolate bun.
Friday. A dress. Toast and egg. Sitting next to me was Shore. He has a birthmark on his face and speaks in a low voice. He asked if I was writing a novel.
Mom sat beside me, pouring warm milk into my favorite mug, helping me spell words. She told me not to hug strangers, to say thank you when given a gift, and to look people in the eyes when talking. She also told me that everything has consequences—nothing just happens for no reason.
Years later, I began to wonder: if I remember all of these things, why did Mom say I was forgetful?
“Maybe you just process things more slowly,” someone once told me. “So you write them down first and sort through them later.”
“Like I’m doing now?” I asked. He said yes.
Who was he? I can’t remember. Maybe Mom was right after all.
School got harder. I couldn’t grasp literary genres or understand math formulas. But my handwriting was neat, and my notebooks looked nice. Mom asked if I wanted to learn to paint, but I didn’t want more school. I walked a few blocks, flipped two coins at a bus stop, and rode to the beach, where a surf shop hired me as a cashier.
Ocean and the others often visited. Soon after, they started working there too after class.
I loved the beach—the sunlight felt like a warm hug. I loved hugs. Sea hugged me. Ocean and Shore were hesitant at first, but eventually got used to expressing joy that way. We always lounged together in the sun or floated in rings on the sea. I loved the ocean. I often imagined melting in the sun and leaking out of my floatie, becoming part of the sea.
Mom warned me never to swim alone. If I felt unwell, call for help loudly. We had to learn swimming for the Marble League, but I still remembered her words.
Do others drown too? Are they scared underwater? Can people dissolve?
“Of course not,” Tide told me. He always encouraged us. “You have real potential,” he’d say, pulling me up with both arms after swims. He was tall like a ladder. His hugs felt heavy and safe.
But I didn’t wait for Tide. Lagoon nearly threw his stopwatch at my face.
“Are you seriously going to compete with this result?” he snapped. I didn’t know what to say.
“Do it again,” he said. “Again. And again. You’re not leaving the pool until you meet the standard.”
We swam until dark.
“Lagoon is scary,” I said.
Bay was on the other bed in the hotel room, back turned. She paused, then said, “Yeah.”
One by one, we raced down the sand track into the sea, wet sand sticking to our ankles, then turned and dash again. The ocean at the end of the track made us Oceanics. None of us had thought about swimming—we just wanted to keep running.
“Do you believe names can predict fate?” I asked.
“…Did Hazers say that?” Bay asked, confused.
“Maybe! I don’t remember.” I rolled over hugging my pillow, almost falling off the bed.
“It’s probably not that magical. It’s just letters.”
After a while, she added, “But maybe names are important.”
Bay and Shore, with similar meanings, became lovers. Reef, named for jagged stone, wrecked ships that strayed from course. Oceanics — the ocean — could never adapt to narrow, shallow pools.
I wrote all these thoughts down, right next to “the eggs were gross,” “close the meeting room door when leaving,” and “Sea said we’ll be okay.”
Once, Bay took my notebook and pen, asking, “Wouldn’t it have been better if I never joined the Oceanics?”
The air was weird when she rolled in her suitcase to training. It smelled like sand and rain. Tide explained that after the league restructuring, he couldn’t serve two roles anymore and Bay would be our new reserve. The others remembered her from the 2018 halfpipe match. I only remembered when I reread my notebook. Wednesday, Arctic Circle, qualifiers, Bay greeted me and said, “Nice to meet you.” She had long white curly hair. She fit in quickly, just like Tide. Just like Reef.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
“I’m such a coward,” she said. “I can’t say this to Shore or Tide, only to you, even though I know you won’t understand.”
She gave my notebook back. I still wrote it down, next to “Ocean put melatonin in a vitamin bottle” and “Lagoon said Reef’s a green-eyed monster.”
Dunduei was packed. The Seven Seas Stadium sold out every venue. Oceania had more people than water. Even if just one in ten thousand entered marble sports, that was still a huge number.
And it was true. The qualifier list stretched endlessly, filled with academy teams.
“They look like youth teams but totally different,” Tide explained. “They’re not trained by elite teams. Think of it like a sports school. Tons of people try out but only the best compete.”
“What about the rest? Are they just supposed to sit on the bench forever?” Sea frowned.
Tide and Bay exchanged a look.
“Many do quit,” Bay said. “But there are always others to take their place. Some people can endure.”
Later, Bay told me she didn’t finish ML18 with us because she had finally earned a spot on the Seven Seas Circuit—she couldn’t waste it. “My biggest fear is being replaced,” she said.
But we were all disappointed. The only wish we ever fulfilled was the one we made when we left the beach: to become marble athletes, never looking back.
Reef wanted to erase every trace of Tide’s existence. Lagoon yelled for us to show ride the wave—it was just a new beginning!
“I don’t like this,” I said.
“What are you thinking about?” Bay asked.
“Isn’t there a lot of water in the human body?”
“More than half.”
“Different drinks poured into the same glass don’t mix... But you stir and they blend again. We’re all just water, right?”
She said nothing.
“If we’re all the same, why must we be separated?”
Still no answer. The room was so quiet I jumped out of bed and hugged her from behind.
“Do you dream?” I asked.
“What?” Bay sniffled a bit.
“You were asleep, right? Sitting there.” I pointed at her face. She frowned, wiped the drool at her mouth, then the corner of her eyes.
Tide left before the season ended. I never got to talk to him. People said he was busy arguing—with Reef, with the royals—about money and power. I didn’t understand any of it. The air was just too heavy. I missed him.
When he finally came back, he wore a hat, sunglasses, and a mask. I almost didn’t recognize him.
He said he was just grabbing some things. His room was on our floor. I peeked in—he only took a few clothes and a notebook, fitting it all in a small bag. He didn’t touch his training notes or team files. All the keepsakes from around the world stayed on the windowsill. He was nearly two meters tall, but when he bent down, he looked so small.
I tugged his sleeve.
“Let me see you. Just once?” I said.
He hesitated a long time, then slowly took off his hat and mask. I couldn’t wait—I stood on tiptoe and pulled off his sunglasses. Under his right eye was a red flower tattoo.
“Does it hurt?” I asked, reaching for it. He flinched.
“Not really. Just itches.”
“What does it feel like?”
“Yeah… what does it feel like…” Tide smiled, then quickly gasped and looked away.
“It’s a scab!” I shouted. “Let’s go back! Our coach was hurt—Tide’s bleeding, his face—”
Bay grabbed my flailing hands. “Can you stop drifting?”
My voice was louder than I expected. Hers too. Her eyes were red.
“Aqua… that was years ago,” she whispered. “Tide isn’t our coach. Not even Lagoon anymore.”
She gripped my hands so tightly her knuckles turned white.
“Aqua, it’s 2024. We’re not the Oceanics anymore.”
“…It hurts,” I said.