I remember the sound. A faint click, like a loose toggle switch inside a wall. It started in my right shoulder, sometime around my junior year. I was seventeen, a swimmer, and the state championships were three weeks away. That particular spring, the air felt thick with possibility, like static electricity before a storm. Every morning, before the sun had even properly decided to show itself, I was in the pool by 5:30 AM, the chlorine scent sharp and clean, a promise of speed. My coach, Mr. Harrison, had a gaze that could strip paint, but when he looked at me, there was a flicker of something else — expectation, maybe. And I wanted to meet it, to *exceed* it. The clicking wasn't painful at first. More like a persistent whisper of sand in a well-oiled machine. It happened most often during my butterfly stroke, that powerful, rhythmic surge. A quick, internal pop as my arm rotated back, pulling through the water. I’d try to adjust, to move my shoulder differently, but it was like trying to catch smoke. I’d hold my breath for a second, just to hear if it was still there, a tiny, percussive event happening beneath the surface of my skin. (It always was.) I started to time it, a little internal clock. Usually after the fourth or fifth stroke in a set of ten. A predictable, unsettling rhythm. I knew what a doctor would say. They’d poke and prod, ask me to raise my arm this way and that. And then the words, cold and clinical, would come: "Rest." "Observation." "No strenuous activity." Those words, strung together, felt like a death sentence. To be sidelined, relegated to the bleachers, watching my teammates cut through the water, their movements fluid and unburdened — the thought was a lead weight in my gut. My scholarship was riding on this, on my performance. My mother worked two jobs, sometimes three, cleaning offices and waiting tables, her hands perpetually chapped from detergent and hot water. Missing a season meant risking everything. The thin line between staying afloat and sinking, you understand. So, I kept it hidden. I developed a repertoire of small deceptions. When Coach Harrison would ask, "How's the shoulder feeling, Miller?" I'd force a bright, confident smile and say, "Stronger than ever, Coach!" My voice, I noticed, always came out a little too high, a little too eager. I’d subtly favor my left side when drying off, or avoid certain stretches in the warm-up, pretending to tie my shoelace or adjust my goggles. The fear of being found out was a knot in my stomach, a persistent tremor just beneath my composure. Each stroke, each click, became a gamble. A quiet prayer that it wouldn't escalate, wouldn't betray me. We won the championships that year. I shaved a full second off my personal best in the 100-meter butterfly. The roar of the crowd was a physical thing, a wave that washed over me. I remember the weight of the medal around my neck, cool against my skin, and the way my coach clapped me on the back, a rare, genuine smile on his face. But even then, amidst the triumph, there it was – that faint, persistent *click*. A secret kept, a price paid. A silent reminder, even now, when the ache in my shoulder returns with the changing weather, a dull throb that sometimes keeps me awake until past three in the morning. (It’s 2:17 AM now, to be precise.) The kind of ache that tells a story all its own, in a language only my body understands.