The cold air bit at her skin as the blades of her skates cut through the ice, leaving long, crisp streaks behind her. There was something visceral about it—the way the chill sunk deep into her chest, filling her lungs with an icy clarity. It wasn't just the cold, it was the stillness of the space, the quiet hum of the rink beneath the constant rush of her breath. It was a reminder that she was alive.

Out here, it didn't matter that the world was a cluttered mess of unspoken words, missed chances, and regrets that weighed on her like a thousand unseen hands. Here, she could breathe. Here, she could feel every inch of the ice beneath her, could lose herself in the rhythm of her movements, the sharp sting of the air against her cheeks, the bite of the damp gloves around her fingers. It was the only place where everything else—her fears, her questions, the heavy ache lodged deep in her chest—slipped away, just for a moment.

Off the ice, grief had a way of creeping in, of unraveling her. It never came with warning. Just a look, a memory, a moment that lingered longer than it should, and suddenly she was drowning in it again. Her shoulders never really relaxed. Even when she slept, her hands still reached for something that wasn't there anymore. The absence of it echoed like an empty room. But here? On the rink, under the harsh lights, with the crisp scrape of blades against ice, the ache was muted.