Chapter 4 EPISODE 4

Pyo stepped in easily, changing the subject. "What's San like when it comes to pressure? He seems like the type who thrives on it."

Coach Kim let me off the hook by turning his focus to Pyo. "You're not wrong. He's at his best when the stakes are high. Some players crack under pressure, but San-he feeds off it. He becomes sharper, more focused. It's what makes him a clutch player."

As I made my way down the bleacher steps, the chilly air pricked my cheeks, and the stark contrast between the rink's coldness and the players' heated enthusiasm below tugged me in opposite directions. I attempted to concentrate on watching the players as my fingers held onto the edge of my notebook and my pen was ready. My eyes raced between them-skaters gliding fluidly over the ice, their motions quick and controlled.

I could pick out San easy, his charm on the ice difficult to ignore. He moved as though the ice had been molded to his specifications. But despite my best efforts to focus, my thoughts kept straying and my heart was restless, drawn by something more profound and unsaid.

Then I heard it.

The first few notes of a calm, mellow ballad played gently through the rink's speakers. Above the scrape of skates and the murmur of voices, the sound drifted. As the well-known tune reached me and cut through the cacophony, my breath stuck in my throat.

The tune was identical. We had danced to the same one.

The music sent me back in time, and I froze. Everything came flooding back, including the ice beneath our skates, the arena's dimmed lights, and the way we had glided in unison as if our hearts were beating in time. It was a searing, merciless aching that wrenched in my chest. Out of impulse, I stood up suddenly, my fingers shaking as I gripped my pen and notepad.

I was unable to remain. I had to get out before the memories took over.

Desperate to get away from the music, the ice, and the burden of all I had lost, I ran back up the stairs, my steps erratic and fast. By the time I arrived at the outer entrance, the hall had become quieter and colder, and the muffled noises of the arena had diminished. Something stopped me as my hand was on the push bar.

A picture.

My breath caught as I carefully turned my head and looked at a display directly to my left. Framed and hung on the wall was an antique picture. The picture was clear: me, younger and more radiant, with my girlfriend at my side, grinning wildly. With our arms slung over one another's shoulders and triumph evident on every line of our faces, we stood before a shining prize.

There it was, under the picture. The award.

I gazed at it, the shiny surface reflecting the fluorescent lights of the corridor, and my chest constricted. Unrelentingly, memories rushed forward. The crowd's applause as we won, the way he took my hand and muttered, "

Together, Zain, we succeeded.

The glass was chilly on my hands as I balanced on the edge of the display case because my knees felt weak. As if no time had gone, the anguish was crushing, intense, and new. This moment-our moment-was trapped in time here, even though he was no longer with us.

I was having trouble breathing. I had to leave, but my feet would not budge, stuck where they were as my emotions fought a battle between loss and want. This was no longer only a task. San and the tale I was meant to tell weren't the only things at stake. This was about me and the parts of myself that I had lost on the ice and wasn't sure I would ever regain.

In the distance, the eerie and lovely melody of the ballad continued to play. And as I stood there, torn between the past and the present, I felt the first tears in years start to fall, silently and uncontrollably.

I stood still, staring at the picture as though turning away would break the tenuous grip I had on myself. Unevenly, my chest rose and fell as the weight of my recollections drew me farther into a world I had made a concerted effort to escape.

The image was more than simply a picture of a victory; it was a piece of a life in which I had felt whole and the ice had served as more than just a skating surface-it was a home and a haven. And the person who had made it all worthwhile was standing next to me in that picture. My other half, my companion, and my partner.

His smile was so brilliant, sincere, and vibrant that I couldn't take my eyes off of it. Unconsciously, my fingers moved over the glass, following his form as though I could somehow draw him back, as though just thinking of him would ease the excruciating pain in my chest. However, it didn't. It simply made matters worse.

Like an unseen thread, I felt the faint sound of the ballad slipping into the corridor from the arena. The tune that had played on the day we won was the same one. It was the same music that we had skated to in perfect unison, a routine that had felt more like an unsaid dialogue between two individuals who knew one other better than anybody else could.

And he was gone now.

As I approached the display, the glass caught the dim corridor light, and my eyesight became blurry due to the tears. Beneath the picture, the trophy was displayed with pride, its shiny surface gleaming like a harsh reminder of what I had lost. Leaning closer, I could see the words engraved on the base.

"National Skating Championship – Gold."

As I read that, the weight of those words pushing down on me caused my breath to catch. As he and I took that last bow, arms wrapped around one another, hearts thumping in time, I could still feel the chill of the ice beneath my skates and hear the scream of the audience.

It had been years since I had seen this trophy. Tucked hidden in this arena, on exhibit as if it were just another piece of history, I had no idea it was here. To me, however, it was more than simply history; it was my past, who I was, and everything. And now it was only a memory that had been encased in glass.

"Zain?"

I was surprised by the voice as it cut through my mental haze. Pyo was waiting at the end of the corridor, his brow wrinkled in anxiety, when I turned abruptly. With his hands stuffed into his coat pockets, he adopted a gentler, more cautious manner in place of his typical fun one.

Although I knew it was pointless, I hastily wiped my face, acting as if I hadn't just been sobbing. I attempted to talk, but my voice broke. "I-I just needed some air."

Pyo approached, his footsteps resonating along the deserted corridor. He paused a few feet away and looked from the screen to me. His face lit up with comprehension as his gaze fell upon the picture.

He said softly, "That's you, isn't it?" but it wasn't really a question.

I nodded, unable to articulate the significance of this moment or the reason it seemed like the earth was giving way under my feet. I attempted to settle myself and conceal the feelings that threatened to overflow by clenching my hands into fists at my sides.

After a minute, Pyo replied, "You don't have to say anything," in a steady but low voice. "But... you know, it's okay to feel this. To miss it. To miss him."

With a shaky voice, I shook my head. "I thought I was done with this. I thought I'd moved on."

Pyo leaned against the wall next to the screen and let out a quiet sigh. "Moving on doesn't mean forgetting, Zain. It doesn't mean you stop feeling the loss. It just means you learn to carry it with you."