Natalia.
And Zack.
He's standing close, adjusting her poles, saying something that makes her laugh. Even from this distance, I can see the way her posture relaxes, the way she tilts her head.
Something tightens in my chest.
I should look away. Focus on the run ahead. That's why I'm here—first lift, first tracks, the kind of speed that clears your head.
But I don't look away.
The lift reaches the summit, and I'm already pushing off before the chair reaches the unloading zone.
"Luka—hey!" Annabella's voice follows me, bright and playful. "Last one down gives the winner a massage!"
I don't answer and look back. I just ski.
Fast and aggressive. Carving hard down the main run, my edges biting deep, powder spraying behind me. Other skiers blur past as I cut through the traffic, taking the fall line straight down.
I don't know why I'm moving this fast.
Don't know why my pulse is hammering or why every instinct in my body is screaming to get back down the mountain.
I just know I need to be closer to the bunny hill.
The base appears through the trees. I skidded to a stop at the lift line—not the one I just came from, but the smaller one thatservices the beginner slopes. The one that will take me right over the bunny hill.
I slide into position. The chair scoops me up.
And now I'm closer.
Close enough to see them clearly.
Zack is demonstrating something now—turns, probably, or how to stop. Natalia watches with the kind of focus she brings to everything, like she's memorizing his movements, cataloging them for future use.
She's reckless. That's what I tell myself. She doesn't know her limits, doesn't understand how fast things can go wrong on a mountain. Zack might be good, but he doesn't know her. Doesn't know that she'll push too hard, try to prove something, and refuse to quit even when she should.
The lift climbs higher, and I'm about to force my attention away when Natalia starts moving.
Zack gives her a gentle push, and she glides forward—slow, controlled, exactly how you're supposed to start.
See? Fine. She's fine.
But then she picks up speed.
Not much. Just a little. Enough that her posture shifts, her balance wobbling as gravity takes over.
Zack calls out something, and she adjusts, her skis angling into a wedge.
Pizza. The universal beginner's move.
It works for a few seconds, and then it doesn't.
She's moving faster now, the slope pulling her down with more force than she's ready for. Her arms windmill slightly, poles flailing, and even from up here I can see the moment panic sets in.
She forgets how to stop. Or maybe she never knew. Either way, she's accelerating, heading straight down the fall line toward the edge of the run where the trees start.
Zack yells something—"Pizza! Turn!"—but his voice has an edge now, his easygoing demeanor replaced by urgency, his shoulders rising with tension.
