Tides of Us (MXM)

-Ivan.



Time is an illusion. They say time heals, yet here’s my story of how it never did.

I’m an only child; my family saw me as an opportunity to fulfill everything they were never able to. “Ivan, your fingers look like they’re going to be thin and long, just like your father’s. We definitely should sign him up for piano lessons!” my mom said excitedly to my dad over dinner. I was only 5 years old. My dad was just as excited for the idea. The next day I started piano lessons.

“Do you remember how you told me you had always wanted to be bilingual, Eleanor?”

“Ah yes! Do you think we should get Ivan to learn a new language? I mean, that would really come in handy later on in his life!” That idea came to my dad as he was watching one of the independent films he was supposed to go over for his company to take over production, and of course, they were ecstatic to find a new thing to shove me into without asking if I would find that convenient.

That’s how I got to learning German and then Japanese. Between swimming practice, piano lessons, language courses, arts and crafts, private math tutoring, and school, I hardly had time to sleep.

Aside from the fact that my parents idolized me learning new things, expectations ensued. I was expected to excel in everything my hands touched, as though my success was a given, my talent inexhaustible. I grew overwhelmed, suffocated by the relentless attention, hyper-fixation, and soaring expectations.

I was never ungrateful. I knew with all my parents working hard to provide that I must be grateful. I have to be grateful. I didn’t want to be a thankless child.

“Why did your classmate get a higher grade? Where did we go wrong exactly, Ivan?”

He was only 2 marks higher than me.

“I’ve been working day and night to pay for your math private lessons; couldn’t you do just this one thing for us and be at the top of your class?”

He was only 2 marks higher than me.

“Stop wasting weekends with your friends or slacking on your computer. We might need to get you a time management coach.”

Lawrence was a close friend of mine that I grew to despise; he was really good with equations. He had a mind that thought quick; he was always at the top when it came to math. I stopped hanging out with Lawrence from that day on. He found new friends, and funny enough, he was still at the top of the math class.

Had my parents not pitted us against one another, Lawrence and I might have stayed friends. Perhaps I wouldn’t have hated him so much for being able to do something I couldn’t. Maybe if they didn’t see the 2 marks difference as the source of all evil in the universe. I worked harder still, but eventually I wanted to scream so loudly at them, telling them to accept that there are people out there who are better than me and there will always be people better than I am. If I, at the age of 13, was able to understand individual differences, then why couldn’t they, as grownups, understand?

Later in life, I learned that grown-ups are no different from teenagers in some aspects of life.

I met Wyatt in swimming practice in high school. Wyatt embodied everything I aspired to be. Taller, self-assured, and effortlessly charismatic, he carried himself with pride and confidence. His hair was longer than mine, brushed against his forehead gracefully; the faint waves in his locks and the shiny black color all added up together to present as a crown on top of his head. I used to sneak some glimpses at him before he got into the water, and when he was fully in the pool, that was when I was able to actually watch without sneaking.

He was always surrounded by his friends, a constant cluster of laughter and easy camaraderie. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to talk to him—I did. But the thought of approaching him, even if he’d been alone, felt like scaling an impossible mountain. My palms would sweat just thinking about it. What would I even say? The idea of fumbling over my words in front of Wyatt was more terrifying than the hardest swimming drills our coach could throw at us.

But life, for once, did me a favor. The opportunity came to me instead.

“I didn’t know you also played the piano,” Wyatt said, his voice cutting through the buzz of the pool deck.

I blinked, caught off guard. He was standing right there, close enough that I could see the tiny droplets of water clinging to his hair from practice. My pulse kicked up, but I forced myself to keep my expression neutral.

“How did you know?” I managed to ask, trying to sound casual.

“The flyers in the hall,” he said, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world.

For a split second, I wanted to groan out loud. Of course. The flyers. Bright, obnoxious things plastered all over the school, with my name in bold at the top. I hadn’t wanted them up, but my music teacher had insisted. And now Wyatt—Wyatt—had seen them.

“Our coach said we should go and support a teammate,” he added.

“So the whole swimming team is coming?” I asked, more to fill the silence than anything else. I adjusted my grip on my swimming cap, twisting it in my hands like a lifeline.

“I’m not sure about the whole team,” he said, and then he smiled—a big, easy grin that made my chest feel tight. “But I’ll be there.”

For a moment, I forgot how to breathe. He’d be there? Watching me play? I tugged my swimming cap onto my head, hoping it would hide the way my face was heating up.

I nodded, not trusting my voice, and tried to focus on the sound of the water lapping at the edges of the pool. But my mind was already spiraling. Wyatt—cool, confident, effortlessly charming Wyatt—was coming to watch me. It was ridiculous how much that simple fact rattled me. I was fine under pressure in the pool, but this? This was a whole different game.

“I never took you for someone who would enjoy the piano,” I said quietly, the words slipping out before I could stop them. I wanted to kick myself—what a dumb thing to say.

Wyatt didn’t seem to mind. He tilted his head slightly, as if considering my words. “I guess you don’t really know what people are into unless you ask,” he said, his tone thoughtful but light.

I risked a glance at him, and the softness in his expression caught me off guard. He wasn’t teasing or making fun of me. He was just... talking. To me. Like it was the most normal thing in the world.

The whistle blew, signaling the end of the break, and Wyatt gave me a quick nod before heading back toward his lane. “See you at the recital, Ivan.”

And just like that, he was gone, leaving me standing there with my heart pounding and my swimming cap pulled too far down over my ears. The water gleamed under the fluorescent lights, but all I could see was the way his grin had lit up his face, the way he’d said my name.

I shook my head, forcing myself to focus. Practice was about to start, and I couldn’t afford to lose my rhythm. But as I dove into the cool water, Wyatt’s voice lingered, soft and steady, like the notes of a piano piece I hadn’t yet learned.

I won first place in that piano contest. The applause had been deafening, the stage lights blinding, and the flowers in my arms heavier than I’d expected. My parents looked like they might spend the rest of their lives thanking the Lord for giving them me as a son. For once, it was a night free of comparisons. No hushed comments about what I could have done better, no questions about what someone else might have achieved. Just pride—pure, unfiltered pride. And it felt like I could breathe.

As we prepared to leave the theater, my parents bustling beside me, arms full of bouquets and their voices animated with congratulations, I saw him. Wyatt.

He was weaving through the crowd with another guy from the swimming team, but as soon as his eyes landed on me, he broke away. He moved with an easy confidence, his neat, formal clothes perfectly suited to the occasion, but it was the grin on his face that stopped me in my tracks. It was warm, genuine, and aimed entirely at me. And in that moment, I knew—this wasn’t just polite support. He had come here for me.

“Congratulations on winning first place, man!” Wyatt said as he reached me, his voice full of excitement. “I was amazed at how good you really are. Even the coach looked like he was about to cry listening to your masterpiece.”

I blinked, startled by his enthusiasm, and felt a faint heat rise to my cheeks. “Thanks,” I managed, my voice quieter than I intended.

“What was your piece called again?” the other swimmer asked, stepping in before I could fully collect myself.

“The first wasClair de Lune,and the second wasGaspard de la Nuit," I replied, my French slipping out naturally.

The swimmer nudged Wyatt with a grin. “Look at this elite French pronunciation! You’ve got some competition there.”

Wyatt chuckled, shaking his head. “You’re full of surprises, aren’t you, Ivan?” he teased, his tone playful but soft in a way that made my chest tighten. Then, with a mischievous glint in his eye, he added, “Maybe I should practice French more with you then.”

“Sure, I guess.” I didn’t know what more to say: “Thank you guys so much for coming. I’m sorry I can’t stay longer; my parents are waiting.”

Wyatt stepped back with a casual wave. “No problem. See you at practice.”

And just like that, they disappeared into the walking crowd, their voices fading into the hum of people around us. I stood there for a moment, frozen, the bouquets suddenly heavier in my arms. The glow of the theater headlights still felt like it was on me, even though the stage had long since gone dark.

I had gotten used to my parents being the only ones in the crowd, watching with expectant eyes. If one of them couldn’t make it, at least one of them was always there. And I was grateful for that—always. But this time was different. This time, someone else had been watching. Someone who wasn’t here out of obligation or familial pride.

For the first time, I felt admired—not just by my parents, but by someone like Wyatt. And that was a feeling I wasn’t prepared for.

When my parents asked about Wyatt on the way home, their voices brimming with curiosity, I downplayed our connection, calling him just a teammate who’d come to support me. I didn’t want them drawing comparisons or setting new expectations. Wyatt wasn’t someone they could turn into a benchmark, a standard for me to meet or exceed.

Because I already knew how amazing he was. And that was enough for me to carry silently.

That same day, in my dreams, Wyatt was there. It wasn’t a fleeting, blurry dream but one that felt vivid and alive. I was in the empty theater, practicing alone under the soft spotlight. Wyatt appeared quietly, standing in the aisle, watching me with that easy, unguarded smile he always seemed to carry.

When I finished playing, the silence hung in the air for a moment before I stood and walked toward him. He met me halfway, his hands reaching out to cup mine. “You’re so good,” he said, his voice full of awe, and it made my chest ache in a way I couldn’t explain. It wasn’t the kind of ache that hurt—it was warm, unfamiliar, and oddly comforting. But before I could say anything back, the dream faded, slipping away like sand through my fingers.

When I woke up, that warmth lingered, along with the ache. It stayed with me all morning, fluttering in my chest as I rushed to school, counting the hours until swimming practice.

By the time I walked into the pool area, my teammates were already there, waiting. The sound of applause startled me, pulling my focus to the group, and then I saw him. Wyatt was standing, clapping louder than anyone else. His grin was bright, easy, and it made me grin back—without even realizing it, my gaze locked on him. Just him. My teammates’ cheers faded into the background; it was like the room only held the two of us.

After practice, I was the last one out of the changing room, dragging my feet as I replayed his applause in my head. The room was quiet except for the faint echoes of water dripping from the ceiling, and I thought I was alone until the door opened again. Wyatt walked back in, his brow furrowed in that casual, distracted way of his as he muttered, “Forgot my wallet.”

He paused when he saw me, his expression softening into a smile. “What are you doing after?” he asked, his tone light but curious.

“Probably heading home,” I replied. Where else would I go? My life outside school and practice was a bubble of isolation, one I maintained to protect my peace.

“Do you want to grab something to eat before heading home?” he asked, his voice innocent, almost shy. The simplicity of his offer made my heart flutter. It was such a small thing—grabbing food—but it felt monumental. Saying yes would mean defying my parents’ expectations, risking their disapproval. But the thought of saying no, of walking away from Wyatt and this moment, felt worse.

“I’d love to,” I said, the words spilling out before I could overthink it.

We ended up at a small diner, the kind with sticky tabletops and a jukebox that no one ever used. It was cozy, warm, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like a regular teenager doing something normal. We talked about everything—our interests, our plans, the things that made us feel alive. Wyatt loved sports, the arts, and languages. He told me he was learning German, and for the first time, I was thankful my parents had forced me to learn it too.

He showed me art projects on his phone, his excitement contagious as he flipped through sketches and animations. “If I ever get to the point of creating my own animated movie, would you compose the music for it? Of course, I’ll give you credits,” he said with a grin that made my chest feel impossibly full.

“Yes!” I said immediately, unable to contain my excitement. “I’d love to do that. Just let me know when, and I can start working on it.”

“I love the enthusiasm,” he said, laughing softly. “Honestly, I was going to just download some tracks, but after hearing you play, it hit me—why not make it a project for both of us? If you have the time, of course.”

“I’ll make time,” I said quickly. “Don’t worry about that. So, when are you planning to start?”

“I want to major in arts in college,” he explained, his eyes lighting up as he spoke. “This should be my admission project. You know, something to give me a little push to get accepted.”

“I’ll make sure I compose the best pieces ever heard in animation,” I promised, my voice steady but my heart racing.

The way he smiled at me then—bright and genuine—made every risk feel worth it. I knew I’d get backlash from my parents when I got home. I’d texted my mom to let her know I’d be late, but she hadn’t responded. The silence was worse than any reprimand, but I didn’t care. Seeing Wyatt smile like that, knowing I was part of what made it happen, was worth it.

“Have you thought about what college you want to get into?” he asked, his tone softening.

For someone like me who has tried every skill and tool there is, I should have a clear vision of what I want to do exactly. That wasn’t the case. I spent my whole life being told what’s suitable for me, so I was basically waiting for my parents to tell me what college I should get into.

“I’m thinking about business.” That was the first thing that came to my mind. I didn’t want to have him think of me as a clueless person. When he already has a passion and he’s going to pursue it, I thought I would look pathetic.

“Business? You know what? After a second thought, I think that would suit you. You’re a man of many tricks; I’m sitting here with you, and I can’t predict what’s the next thing you’ll say that you’re good at.”

Wyatt was actually fascinated by me. I wish I was able to see what he’s seeing in me; maybe then I wouldn’t feel so little.

The next few months went by between school and my other side hustles. I call them hustles because that’s how I saw them; they’re things I’m winging so my parents would be satisfied. Wyatt and I grew even closer by time, and before I knew it, I was head over heels for him. Of course, I didn’t say anything. How can I? He was so far out of reach. Despite Wyatt looking at me as a treasure he found in this dump of a high school (his words, not mine), I was still not confident enough to muster the courage to confess to him that I loved him. My parents also never caught up on my fascination with Wyatt; I was very careful not to flaunt our friendship in front of them.

I never invited Wyatt over to my house, and I never visited his; instead, we would hang out in his sister’s apartment to work on his art project. At first I thought it was weird that he never talked about his parents, but I also never talked deliberately about mine, so it was fair. His sister was very welcoming, and his other older sister would only drop by occasionally since she had already started college. His younger brother was in the same school as ours, but we rarely ran into him at school, and he would come home late, so I never talked to him much. Back then I felt a weird dynamic, but I respected how he didn’t voluntarily talk about it, so I never asked.

We were swamped by exams, and we didn’t hang out much then, but it quickly came and quickly passed.

I graduated high school as a valedictorian. Wyatt was so proud of me, and it got me confused a little. The whole situation with Lawrence went through my mind—how I hated that he was better than me and how I cut ties with him because I couldn’t bear the fact that I never got to top because he was parked there. I was poisoned by my parents’ greed. How genuine Wyatt’s feelings perplexed me; I never knew someone wouldn’t mind someone being better than them. I assumed everyone saw success as a competition, yet Wyatt was unbothered, even proud. It hit me then that perhaps if you already have a life and you know what you want, then you wouldn’t be bothered by others’ success. He got into the college he wanted, and I got into business.

The fact that I knew that Wyatt would never reciprocate my feelings hurt me, but I didn’t want anything to take him away from me as a friend, even if they were my own feelings. First year of college, we were both so swamped by the new life we were thrown into, so we drifted a bit.

-Wyatt.



I missed Ivan most nights; whenever I was out with the new people I met in my department, I couldn’t help but think, “If Ivan was here, things would’ve been more fun.” We were stuck to each other for the last year of high school, to the point that now I crave his presence. My art project that he composed music for was played this week in front of the class. My professor really loved how both the animation and the music complimented each other. One of my classmates even said it felt like both were made by the same person because they were in harmony. That made me miss Ivan like crazy. We texted every now and then because of how busy both of us were, but I was very ‘Ivan deprived’.

Once the first year was over, all of the departments threw a combined party to celebrate the end of exams. With every department showcasing the biggest and best projects presented throughout the semester. I was able to have one of my projects presented in the background as everyone was sipping on their drinks. I cast my eyes across the room, letting them wander over every corner looking for Ivan, when finally the line of my hook was tugged. He was there watching the project on the big screen, holding a can of beer in his hand. He hasn’t changed a bit from last year; I was filled with a strong emotion of relief and longing. I made my way to the back of the room and stood in front of him. He smiled at me proudly.

“Still weaving magic, I see.”

“I missed you so much, you idiot!” He opened his arms as an invitation to dive in. Oh, I dove. It felt like home; I was in delirium.