Multiple choice (longer text)

Last spring, I signed up for a 10-kilometre charity run in my town. I’m not a sporty person, but my friend Luca was very excited about it and said we should do it together. The money was for a local children’s hospital, and that made it harder to say no. I told everyone I was “just trying something new”, but inside I was worried I would be the slowest runner there.

On the first training day, I ran for six minutes and then had to stop. My legs felt heavy and my breathing was loud, like I was making a big announcement to the whole park. Luca didn’t laugh, but he didn’t talk much either. He just slowed down and waited. That silence made me feel more embarrassed than any joke. After that, I started going out alone in the evenings. I chose quiet streets and I wore an old hoodie so nobody would recognise me.

Two weeks before the race, it rained every day. I missed three training sessions and told myself it was because of the weather, but I knew the truth. I was scared of arriving on the day and failing in front of people. Then the hospital posted a short video online. A nurse thanked the runners and showed new toys they had bought for children who had to stay overnight. I watched it twice. It didn’t suddenly make running easy, but it made my excuses feel smaller.

On race morning, the sky was bright and cold. There were families, dogs, music, and volunteers handing out safety pins. Luca looked calm, and I tried to copy him. The first kilometres were fine, but at around kilometre six my stomach hurt and I wanted to walk. I saw an older man with a knee support moving slowly but steadily, and I stayed behind him. I didn’t speak to him, yet following his rhythm helped more than I expected.

I crossed the finish line in one hour and eight minutes. It wasn’t fast, but Luca clapped like I had won. I felt tired in a good way, and also strangely proud. Later, when I looked at my muddy shoes, I realised I wasn’t thinking about being the slowest anymore. I was thinking about the fact that I had continued, even when nobody was pushing me. That was the hardest part, and it was also the best lesson.