Zoey's POV

The first breath outside the rink always feels like a small reprieve.

The air is warmer than it's been in months, winter's sharp edge gradually fading. The wind carries hints of damp earth and new grass. I roll my shoulders as I walk, the right shoulder blade pulling with a dull ache—aftershocks from drilling Biellmann spins and combination spins over and over. It feels like Octavia's cold stare is still boring into my back, refusing to look away.

Ophelia walks beside me, tying her jacket around her waist and letting out a long exhale. "How are you holding up? I feel like I just got run over by a truck full of ice skates."

I let out a soft laugh. "Same."

"My thigh muscles are already planning to run away from home, and they're definitely taking my knees with them."

"My soul floated away during the second set of jump drills. You're basically talking to an empty shell in clothes right now."

Ophelia groans. "This is exactly why I never want figure skating to be my life goal. It's terrifying. My goals are simple: stay healthy, don't break any legs, and get into Unity College to study animal science."

I glance at her. "You really want to go to Unity College?"

"Of course." She sounds serious, though her eyes are bright. "It's close to the vet school, has a strong animal science program, and I'm going to be a pet doctor. You know, I'd rather deal with an angry parrot than people who never tell the truth. At least parrots usually scream before they bite you."

I can't help but laugh.

"What are you laughing at?" She bumps my shoulder. "This is my life plan."

"I know," I say. "Your life plan includes being a pet doctor, owning ten dogs, three cats, and one very grumpy parrot that you insist just needs more love."

Ophelia isn't at the rink to climb national rankings or to impress college admissions officers. Her parents put her in skating because she was sickly as a kid—constantly catching colds. The doctor suggested a sport that would build her core, balance, and endurance, so they dropped her at the rink.

She doesn't hate it, though.

She likes the feeling of wind rushing past her ears when she glides. She likes guilt-free cinnamon rolls after practice. And she likes announcing that her only life goal is not breaking any legs while everyone else turns pale with competition nerves.

"Exactly." Ophelia nods. "And your life plan includes nationals, Celestial University, national rankings, coach recommendations, and pushing yourself until you're a string about to snap."

I don't argue. My parents have drilled it into me since childhood—getting into Celestial University is my life's mission. As if screwing up means my entire life falls apart. As if my parents would stop loving me.

My parents aren't bad to me. They're just constantly comparing themselves to everyone around them. They have to improve every single day. Including me. I'm part of their KPIs they need to hit.

I smile faintly. She and I are different. But she's like my opposite—when I'm suffocating, she reminds me life gives you plenty of chances to start over. Just like the first day she came to our high school and met me.

I'm always busy juggling training and schoolwork in high school. I don't have time for friends. Ophelia and Lawrence both crashed into my world without warning. I swear, they're the two people most worth keeping from high school, but one of them seems ready to drift out of my orbit now.

I need to shake off Lawrence's hold on me. I glance at Ophelia, already changed out of her practice clothes.

"Seriously," I say, "you could skate so much better. Your basics are solid—you just won't push yourself."

She shrugs with complete indifference. "I'm already good enough. At least for a future pet doctor. My patients aren't going to ask if I can land a triple Salchow. They're going to ask if I can please not stick the thermometer up their butt."

"You're really killing the mood right now."

"Thank you. It's my gift." Ophelia doesn't care. She shrugs again. "Okay, we've talked about skating technique all day. My stomach is staging a revolt. I desperately need food that'll make my brain go fuzzy."

"Totally agree." I smile and fall into step beside her as we head off campus.

The bakery on the corner is just ahead. Before we even push the door open, the smell hits us—vanilla, frosting, butter, and the warmth of freshly baked bread all mingling together. It feels like a hug you don't have to work for.

We order without thinking. She gets her usual cinnamon roll. I pick a chocolate cupcake piled high with frosting, a little over-the-top, but today I want something that doesn't belong to my training plan, doesn't belong to Octavia, doesn't belong to any application system.

We sit by the window and fall quiet again. Outside, people rush past with tense expressions, but inside this little shop, everything feels distant. There's only frosting melting on my tongue and sore muscles slowly unwinding from their tight coils.

"I feel like I'm going to mess up this competition," I finally say quietly, my voice barely loud enough for Ophelia to hear.

Her expression stays calm. "You'll be fine."

"I just feel like I'm desperately trying to hold something steady, but it keeps shaking under my feet. The ice, applications, Lawrence, the competition—everything demands I don't make mistakes, but I kept messing up today."

"You're exhausted."

"Everyone's exhausted."

"Yeah, but not everyone's juggling national rankings, a Celestial University application, a coach who demands perfection, and someone who's forgotten about them for the seventh time."

I break off a piece of cake and roll it between my fingers. "I always feel like if I let up for even a second, I'll get left behind."

"You won't."

"How do you know?"

She looks at me like the answer is obvious. "Because you're already ahead."

I have no response.

We finish our treats slowly, unhurried. Just sore bodies, sweet flavors, and the strange relief of surviving another practice, another day.

When we step outside again, the sun is sinking low. The golden light softens gradually, but it's still warmer than it's been in months. I take a deep breath, like accepting a gift I've earned.

Every part of me aches. My shoulder throbs. My thighs are already warning me about tomorrow's pain. But I walk steady.

Today, I stayed upright.

Maybe that's enough.

Ophelia heads toward her neighborhood, waving tiredly and muttering about ramen, a bath, and how if she doesn't text back later, assume the mattress swallowed her whole. I laugh and keep walking.

I pull out my phone for the first time since class ended. Notifications flood in. All from Lawrence. Same content as always.

[I'm sorry.]

[He loves me, he won't forget again.]

I immediately shove my phone back in my pocket.

When I turn onto the street where my dorm is, I freeze.

He's sitting on the steps outside my building.

My dorm building.

Hoodie pulled low, a paper bag resting on his legs, scrolling through his phone—probably checking for the hundredth time if I've replied. The setting sun falls across his shoulders, making him look soft and harmless, like the boy who got so nervous the first time he held my hand that he stumbled over his words.

If this were yesterday, or last month, or any of the previous six times, I would've smiled the moment I saw him.

But this time, I just stand there, suddenly feeling very tired.

"Hey," I say.

He jerks his head up, practically jumping to his feet. "Zoey."

He rushes toward me, bag in hand, face full of apology. "I'm so, so sorry. I didn't mean to. Cordelia asked me to help her with a math problem, and I thought it'd just be a few minutes, but we got talking and I totally lost track of time. By the time I realized, I was freaking out."

"Lawrence—"

"I was supposed to pick you up. I know. I had it in my calendar, set a reminder, and then like an idiot I didn't pay attention. I really didn't mean to blow you off."

I look at him without moving to hug him like I used to.

His voice falters, like he's finally realizing I'm not following the script he knows.

He holds out the bag, his smile a little cautious. "I got you that sandwich you love. You know, the weirdly healthy one—avocado, turkey, sprouts, and that whole wheat bread you say tastes like cardboard but is good for you."

I glance down at the paper bag.

Thoughtful.

Familiar.

Exactly the kind of thing he'd do.

If this were the first time, I'd find his awkwardness endearing.

If this were the second time, I'd tell myself he's at least trying.

But this is the seventh time.

I don't take it.

Lawrence's hand hangs in midair. His smile stiffens. "Zoey?"

"Keep it," I say, my voice calmer than I expected. "I'm tired."

He freezes. "You didn't eat dinner, did you? You trained for hours. At least eat something."

"I went to a restaurant with Ophelia. And it's past dinnertime anyway," I say evenly.

"I know I messed up," he says. "But I really love you."

"You already said that in your texts. If you don't have anything else, you can go now."

His brow furrows. "What do you mean?"

"Nothing. Lawrence, I trained all day. I just want to sleep. I promise I'll contact you tomorrow." I sigh. I don't want a fight—not here, where people coming and going from the dorms will see. Gossip travels fast, and it'll reach my parents' ears.

That would be worse.

"Babe, you promise we're okay?" Lawrence asks, worried.

I lean in and kiss his cheek—not his lips. "Of course. I promise."

His expression relaxes. He immediately kisses my forehead, looking relieved. "Good," he says. "Get some rest. When you're feeling better, just call me."

He pauses, his voice softening.

"I'll be here."

I shake my head. I don't care anymore. I don't agree with most of my parents' views, but they have one line that's helped me. I can't put my hope in other people. That's right. I need to focus on myself.

I don't care if Lawrence will still be waiting tomorrow, because his family is a co-founder of the school, he's the football team captain, and there are plenty of girls at school who'd love to climb into his bed.

The moment I walk into my dorm, I close the door and collapse onto my bed.