“I—” I couldn’t get the words out. My chest was too tight. “Nico. My ex. He tried to—he’s in the hospital. He tried to kill himself.”
“Oh, fuck. Théo, I’m so sorry—”
“And I’m sitting here—” I held up the razor, showed him what was in my hand. I don’t know why I did it. Maybe becauseI was too tired to lie. Maybe because I needed someone to stop me. “I’m sitting in your bathroom and I found these and I want to—I really want to—”
“Okay.” Derek’s voice was steady. Calm. The kind of calm that coaches used when someone was injured on the ice. “Okay. I need you to put those down for me. Can you do that?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do. You answered my call instead of using them. That means part of you doesn’t want to.” His eyes were locked on mine through the screen. “Put them down, snowdrop. Please.”
The nickname undid me.
I dropped the razors into the sink with a clatter and pressed the heels of my hands against my eyes, crying in a way I hadn’t let myself cry in months. Ugly, gasping sobs that hurt my chest and made it hard to breathe.
“That’s it,” Derek said softly. “That’s good. You’re okay. I’ve got you.”
“I’m sorry,” I choked out. “I’m sorry, I’m such a mess, I don’t know why you—”
“Don’t. Don’t apologize.” His voice cracked slightly, the first sign that he wasn’t as calm as he was pretending to be. “I’m just glad you answered. I’m so fucking glad you answered.”
I sank down onto the bathroom floor, my back against the tub, and let him talk me through it. His voice in my ear, steady and sure, while the razors sat untouched in the sink and the worst of the storm slowly, slowly passed.
???
I flew out to Toronto just as Derek returned from Florida. News of Nico’s overdose spread like wildfire on the internet. Speculation was rampant. About him. About us. About what hadreally happened between the two rising stars of Canadian figure skating.
Sabrina picked me up from the airport, subdued as she wrapped her arms around me.
I crumpled into her. Now that the tear floodgates had opened, I didn’t seem to be able to shut them. I knew I probably should have made an emergency therapy appointment but I couldn’t find the energy to deal with that. I could barely find the energy to stand.
“It’s not your fault, Théo,” she said softly, rubbing my back. “You know that, right?”
I didn’t answer. I wasn’t sure I believed her.
We went straight to the hospital.
Technically, visitors were restricted to immediate family. Nico was still in the psychiatric unit, still on observation, still fragile enough that the nurses monitored everyone who came and went. But Renaud had made a call—pulled whatever strings Olympic coaches could pull—and my name had been added to the approved list. I didn’t want to owe him anything.
But I wanted to see Nico more.
We checked in at the nurse’s station, surrendered our phones and bags, and waited in a sterile hallway that smelled like industrial cleaner and despair. Sabrina squeezed my hand.
“I’ll be right here,” she said. “However long it takes.”
A nurse led me through a set of locked doors. The psychiatric unit was quieter than I expected—no screaming, no chaos, just a heavy stillness that pressed against my chest. She stopped outside a room with a small window in the door.
“If he gets agitated, press the call button,” she said.
I nodded, not trusting my voice, and stepped inside.
The room was small and aggressively neutral. Pale walls, pale floor, a window with reinforced glass that let in thin afternoonlight. No sharp edges anywhere. Nothing that could be used to hurt.
Nico was sitting up in bed, wearing a hospital gown that hung off his frame. He’d lost weight—too much weight, the kind that made his cheekbones jut out and his wrists look fragile as bird bones. His pale golden hair was limp and unwashed and there were shadows under his eyes that looked like bruises.
He looked up when I walked in. For a moment, neither of us said anything.
“You came,” he said finally. His voice was hoarse. Smaller than I remembered.
