The rink was nearly empty, the fluorescent lights casting a cold glow over the ice as the Zamboni sat unused in the corner. It was closing time, but she was still out there—gliding across the ice in long, fluid strokes, like she was trying to outrun something. Or maybe just me.

She’d been ignoring me all day. Not with sharp words or obvious glares—no, that wasn’t her style. She was too controlled for that, too polished. Instead, she had cut me out in the way that hurt the most—like I wasn’t there at all.

I watched her from the edge of the rink, arms crossed, jaw tight. She hadn’t so much as looked in my direction since the argument, and hell, maybe I deserved it. We weren’t good at fighting—not because we never had disagreements, but because neither of us knew what to do with them once they started. She locked up, I shut down, and eventually, one of us walked away. Today, it had been her.

I sighed, running a hand over my face before finally stepping onto the ice, my skates cutting into the surface as I moved toward her. She didn’t slow down. Didn’t acknowledge me. Just kept skating, her movements effortless, practiced—like she was trying to disappear into them.