We sit with that for a minute in a comfortable kind of silence. The kind that doesn’t demand anything.
Then she looks at me and asks, “Are you scared… or are you just being careful?”
The question feels deeper than I expect.
I stare down at my hands. There’s a faint smear of grease on my thumb. I rub at it absently. “Both,” I admit. “But I think I finally know the difference.”
Clara waits. She always does.
“I was confusing safety with absence,” I continue slowly. “I thought if something didn’t hurt, it meant it was safe. But that’s not true. Sometimes it just means I’m numb.” I swallow. “Callum was never safe in the way I thought safety was supposed to feel. He was… exposed. Being with him meant being seen. And I don’t think I realised what that meant or exactly how terrifying that was until everything blew up.”
Clara nods, eyes soft. “And now?”
“Now I know I don’tneedhim.” The words feel solid when I say them. Anchored in a weird kind of way. “I didn’t fall apart without him. I survived the worst version of this. I rebuilt myself piece by piece.” My chest tightens, not painfully, but with pride. “But I want him. And wanting feels scarier than needing, because it’s a choice.”
A real one.
Clara reaches over and squeezes my knee. “That sounds like empowerment to me.”
I smile faintly. “It feels like it.”
My next decision doesn’t come all at once. It forms slowly over the next few days, in the peaceful moments. In the way I don’t flinch when his name comes up anymore. Or how I reread his letter without that spike of defensiveness, noticing instead how careful he was not to ask for forgiveness he hadn’t earned.My fear no longer feels like a wall, just a boundary I’m allowed to hold.
By the time I wake up on Thursday morning, it feels inevitable.
I grab my camera.
The rink smells the same as it always does. Cold air and rubber mixed with something metallic that never quite leaves. Stepping inside feels like crossing a threshold, but it’s different this time. I’m not here because of him. I’m here because this place still matters tome. And technically I’m still on their books as a freelance photography, the arrangement was always for me to take candid photos and drop them with PR when I could.
I keep to the edge of the stands as practice starts, pulling my hood up, camera cradled against my chest. The sound of skates carving the ice echoes through the space, sharp and rhythmic. The puck snaps against sticks. Shouts ring out; half instruction, half instinct.
And then I see him.
Callum moves differently now.
It’s subtle. The kind of thing you’d miss if you weren’t looking closely, but it’s there. I see it. He’s controlled. Intentional. No wasted motion, no reckless surges forward like he’s trying to outrun something chasing him. He plays like he’s present in his body again. Like he’s not trying to prove anything.
I lift my camera and start shooting. I capture the tension in his shoulders as he lines up for a drill. The way his jaw clenches when he misses a pass, not furious, just focused. I catch Lukas laughing at something shouted across the ice, Callum’s mouth twitching despite himself. He doesn’t look up once. That matters.
When practice ends, I wait. I don’t rush down. I don’t announce myself. I give myself the space to feel everything. Thenerves fluttering low in my stomach, the calm underneath them. There’s a certainty that I can leave at any moment if I need to.
Eventually, I make my way to the corridor outside the locker rooms. He comes out still damp from the shower, hair curling slightly at the ends, gym bag slung over one shoulder. He looks tired. Grounded. He freezes when he sees me. Not in shock or panic. Just still.
“Hey,” he says quietly.
“Hey.”
We stand there for a second, the space between us charged but not hostile. He doesn’t step closer. Doesn’t reach for me. His hands stay firmly at his sides.
Thank you, I think. For remembering not to rush me or push for more.
“I didn’t know you were coming today,” he says.
“I didn’t tell you,” I reply honestly. “I needed it to be mine.”
He nods, accepting that without question. “Okay.”
I glance down at my camera. “I took some photos. Practice shots. I’ll send them to the team later.”
