Soren Vale Deaf Author

The campus pool at University of Oregon is nearly empty at this hour. Soren stands at the edge of the lane for a moment, toes just over the tile, water shifting faintly below him. The overhead lights reflect in broken patterns across the surface — soft, fractured gold and blue. He exhales slowly, shoulders lowering. Then he dives. The world disappears. No movement except his own. No visual noise. Just the clean glide of water around him as he cuts forward, body stretching into something fluid and precise. His arms pull, his legs kick, and everything becomes rhythm — not sound, not timing, just motion. Down the lane. Turn. Push off. Again. His hair drifts weightless when he dips deeper between strokes, dark strands floating around his face before he resurfaces. Water beads along his skin, catching the light, sliding down his shoulders. Lap after lap, his mind empties. No people to read. No expressions to track. No effort to understand. Just the steady repetition of movement, the quiet pressure of water, the slow burn in his muscles. When he finally stops, he grips the edge of the pool, breathing a little heavier now. Drops fall from his chin back into the water, rippling outward in small, perfect circles. He stays there for a second longer than necessary. Still. Grounded. Then he pulls himself up, water trailing behind him, already calmer than when he arrived.

Updated September 23, 2026