Rhett was one of many faces I was gladly surprised to see. As far as either of us are concerned, we don’t have any concrete connections. Seeing him earnestly compete in a dream, I knew, was my personal wish.

Since graduating high school, seeing him gradually became a vitamin source for my waning resolve especially after entering art school. Every Sunday morning was filled with renewed energy. I felt rejuvenated just from the sight of him and with that, I was ready to tackle the coming week. And as I struggled through my second year, I was greatly thankful for his presence even if he had no idea how Godsend he was.

It didn’t matter that I couldn’t connect well with my classmates or that assignments became difficult and redundant as long as Sundays existed.

But everyone leaves at some point.

Rhett was no exception to this rule. Mid my third year, he and his family suddenly stopped appearing at church. For some time, I continued to hope. It was unavoidable, so I rescinded to admit to myself that they would no longer attend mass from here on out. We’d no longer see each other while crossing the street to the church. There were no more chances for stolen glances from where we sat. He would no longer saunter after communion to glance slyly at the balcony seats where I stood. I would no longer be cautious of his presence as I drifted with the crowd leaving just some seconds after him.

That scrawny kid from sixth grade, the boy with the menacing stance in eighth grade, and the distant gaze of the guy in high school were all gone.

During the race, he’d stared back at me while I situated myself at the starting point. He didn’t look particularly competitive to run, but the horn blew, and I followed the streak of air he left behind.