My roommates are at practice or maybe doing recon for the charity event. They’re still trying to hold things together while I sit here, doing the emotional equivalent of melting into the furniture.
I know I should be with them on the ice. Leading the team. Instead, I’m watching a paused episode of some baking show. The screen is frozen on a close-up of someone piping frosting onto a cake I’ll never eat. There’s something very masochistic about that.
The silence shatters when my phone buzzes once. Then again. Then a third time, louder, group chat level buzz. I don’t want to look. I really don’t want to look.
But I can’t help it.
The messages are from the community event group text, me, Maisie, Beth, Sin, a handful of guys from the men’s team, some of the campus volunteer leads.
The venue is pulling out of our charity scrimmage. We were supposed to hold it in one of the city parks, but apparently, they’ve had a scheduling conflict, and of course we’re getting the boot.
The timeline is too tight to pivot without a miracle.
Beth has the last word.
Beth: Sorry, Luna. I know this was your baby.
A wave of dread washes through me. The weight behind my ribs shifts. Not a crack, just a shift. This wasn’t about image. Not really. When I started brainstorming this scrimmage last year, it was about the girls. All the little ones who brave the subzero temperatures to show up at outdoor rinks in secondhand skates and borrowed gear. The ones who look up to me and my teammates. The future of our sport. This was supposed to be real. Something to inspire the next generation. The men’s team got brought on board this year as part of the PR plan, but they embraced it. They jumped in with enthusiasm and valuable contacts to help organize the event. And it had been going so smoothly.
I scroll through the thread again. Read the same four lines three times, just to feel them sink in. I’ve been swallowed up by the controversy. I’m not an individual anymore. Not a student trying to scrape together a future for herself and her sister. I’ve been painted as a liar and a fake. My eyes blur a little, but I don’t cry.
Instead, I set the phone down, lean forward with my elbows on my knees, and press my hands into my face until I see stars behind my eyelids.
I worked so hard to make this matter. To prove I wasn’t just a girl online with decent lighting and a niche. To make it real.
And now I’m being edited out of my own story.
I hear the door creak open before I see her. Celeste’s steps are light, almost tentative, like she isn’t sure if I’m awake or if I’ll bite her head off. But the depression is dragging me down, and I’m too weak to protest.
She says nothing at first. Just crawls onto my bed beside me, curling her long legs underneath her like she belongs there. And she kind of does. Even though she doesn’t live with me, she’s my family. My home.
I glance over. “How’d you get in here?”
“Maisie let me in. You weren’t answering your phone. Lame, sis.”
“I couldn’t.”
She watches me for a beat longer, then reaches over and tugs one end of my blanket over her lap as if it’s hers.
“I got another email today,” she says. “From the ballet company.”
I nod. I knew it was coming, but I haven’t had the energy to celebrate.
“They want me to start right after the summer intensive. Trainee slot, full schedule, some travel. They said I have distinct emotional awareness. I’m quoting.”
“Because you’re dramatic,” I say, voice dry.
Celeste grins. “Exactly. Channeling it for good now.”
I let out a soft breath that’s almost a laugh.
She turns toward me fully, blanket bunched up around her arms like armor. “You know I only get to do this because of you, right?”
“Don’t.”
“I mean it.” Her voice is soft but steady. “Because you pushed. You cared. And you didn’t let me give up on myself when everything sucked. And now you’re trying to give up on yourself, and I’m supposed to just sit here and let it happen?”
I look down at my hands. They’re clenched in the folds of the blanket, white-knuckled. I didn’t even notice.
