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A U R O R A

Past

Marco's definition of 'run' was two miles out in the freezing weather. And if I whined about the cold too much, he would make me increase the pace. By the time we came back, I was a sweating mess—flushed and entirely out of breath. But it didn't seem to please Marco one bit.

Half an hour later, he dragged me into the gym again for another endless session of workouts to add on to my misery. And with each passing day, he would push me further until he was satisfied. Every time I would get the hang of something, Marco would change the course. Just like that, one morning, he suddenly decided that all these kinds of torture were not good enough and made me do additional exercises as well, failing which I would have to work ten times more.

"Thirty laps," Marco instructed one day, reclining against the lounge chair.

Swimming wasn't the part of the curriculum until then. Somewhere down the line, I realized that you couldn't impress this man no matter how hard you have tried.