Twelve Hundredths

The crowd was hushed, the only sound the rush of water beneath the diver breaking the silence. Ayaka watched as Kisaragi Miyu prepared to attempt something no one had thought possible this year: an Olympic gold for Japan in the three‑meter dive. Most assumed the women would not contend for medals at all.

Ayaka was deeply grateful she had been allowed to travel with the team despite being an injured winter athlete. When the offer came, and the only thing she was required to do was cheer for the swimming and diving squads, it felt like a dream. Now she sat here, free of obligation and full of hope, wondering if she was about to witness Japanese history.

Miyu stood almost statuesque on her toes, gazing out over the edge of the diving board. Ayaka thought she might stay frozen there forever. Then Miyu took two graceful steps forward and began her jump. It felt as though the entire Japanese team inhaled in unison with each movement.

She sprang off the board with practiced precision. Miyu spun forward in three tight rotations, and for a moment, Ayaka could have sworn the droplets around her formed an aura. The entry was clean; even Ayaka could see that much. The crowd erupted, not just the Japanese delegation but the entire arena, rising to applaud the young diver.

The diver needed sixty points to medal and sixty‑seven to win gold; the team around Ayaka had repeated that several times. The arena waited in a heavy, breath‑held silence as the scores took their time appearing.

“Seven point five, seven point five, seven point five, eight, eight, seven point five, seven point five.”

The numbers meant little to Ayaka; she did not know the scoring system. But the male diver sitting beside her gave a silent, triumphant “yes” as he pumped his fist.

“With a score of sixty‑nine point seven five,” the announcer finally declared.

The arena erupted. Every member of the Japanese delegation surged into celebration, hugging, shouting, and breaking into a chaotic mix of cheers and half‑sung chants that rumbled through the team area.

Miyu was celebrating, divers from all over the world lining up to congratulate her. Ayaka watched the pure joy radiating from the young athlete. At first, she pictured Kisaragi Miyu on the podium, the Japanese flag rising behind her as she held up her gold. Then she let the image shift: three skaters instead of divers, and Ayaka herself standing triumphant in the center. She promised herself she would have that moment.

Yui’s support, her mother’s cheers, her father’s unwavering belief, all of it rose in her chest. She used to think only of national glory, but after so many beatdowns, all she wanted now was to see her family smile. She shook her head clear and rejoined the celebrations.

Still riding the high of Kisaragi Miyu’s win, the crowd buzzed with anticipation for the two‑hundred‑meter event. Unlike before, expectations were soaring. People around Ayaka were already talking about that interview months ago, the one where Kaito had casually mentioned he could break a record.

Ayaka could not correct all of them. She could only remind herself, silently, that he had been thinking out loud, not making a declaration.

She watched as Kaito shook his limbs loose before the race. He seemed focused, sealed off from the chaos in the stands. Ayaka was grateful he could not hear the rumbling expectations around them; if he could, he would have wanted to hide.

Here, though, he was in his element. He looked more at ease by the pool than anywhere else she had ever seen him. The cap he rarely wore in practice, paired with the goggles, made him look almost like a different person; sharper, steadier, undeniably professional.

The crowd settled as the swimmers made their way to the starting blocks. A few scattered cheers rose as they bent forward in preparation.

“Take your marks.”

Beep.

All eight swimmers launched from the blocks, the arena erupting in a single roar. Kaito and the Australian swimmer, Luca Patel, exploded ahead of the field. The wave they created reminded Ayaka of dolphins cresting the surface before disappearing into their strokes.

Ayaka nearly forgot to breathe between the start and the moment Kaito settled into his rhythm. He was in good form; she was not an expert, but she felt it. There was confidence in his movement, a rhythm she only ever saw when the coaches praised him.

They hit the wall and turned smoothly, the split times flashing ahead of the curve. Kaito and Luca remained neck and neck. The crowd roared as all eight swimmers hit the wall and returned to Ayaka’s imagined dolphin shapes, all of them still within a second of each other.

Ayaka’s nerves tightened. This was closer than she had imagined. She was suddenly grateful her own sport was not side‑by‑side; she was not sure she could handle this kind of pressure. Her hands had clasped together without her noticing, almost in prayer for Kaito’s success.

The swimmers began their strokes again, and this time a clear separation emerged. Kaito and Luca were nearly a full body length ahead of the third‑place swimmer. Ayaka felt herself relax, taking it as a sign he would medal. Her cheering grew louder, less anxious.

They hit the wall together again, the rest of the field now trailing. The scoreboard showed them ahead of world‑record pace. The cheers swelled with anticipation.

As they began the next length, Ayaka thought she saw Luca pull slightly ahead, though no one around her seemed to notice. Stroke for stroke, the two leaders moved in perfect sync. Ayaka imagined competing like a warm‑up routine: two skaters performing dangerous passes while jumps aligned with impossible precision.

They turned at the final wall with the same sharpness she had just imagined for herself, even if far less dangerous. Ayaka caught herself thinking that Kaito’s dolphin kick was cute; something she wished she could record as a souvenir. Too late; they were already powering into their final strokes.

The slight lead she thought she had seen from Luca evened out. The two swimmers had left the rest of the field behind; the third‑place swimmer was nearly a full second slower on the turn. The entire arena focused on the two men racing toward history.

They touched the wall at the same time, or at least they had in Ayaka’s eyes. Every gaze snapped from the pool to the scoreboard.

Lane 4 - New Olympic Record - 1:41.73 Lane 5 - Kaito Hayasaka - 1:41.85 (+0.12)

Ayaka looked down at Kaito just in time to catch a flicker of despair before he forced a smile and celebrated with his team. It was only a crack, but it was enough. She knew the disappointment of not living up to expectations.

Then she looked back at the board.

Previous Olympic Record - 1:41.88.

He had beaten the old record too. He had done exactly what he believed he could.

Ayaka clapped as she watched him celebrate, ignoring the negative comments from spectators who had expected gold.