[Emily’s POV]

The rink at five in the morning feels like trespassing in a church made of ice. My breath clouds while I lace my skates, fingers numb from cold that has nothing to do with temperature.

This is dedication, I tell myself. Not avoiding the dorm where Maddie sleeps ten feet away like a question I keep failing to answer.

She’s already here. Of course she is.

Gliding through her routine in the empty rink like she’s performing for ghosts. Her movements are technically flawless in ways that make my chest ache with something I refuse to name.

I step onto the ice, and she falters mid-spin. Just a fraction, barely noticeable except I’ve been cataloging her movements since we were eight.

We acknowledge each other with careful distance.

“Morning,” I offer, voice echoing like an apology for existing.

“You’re here early,” she responds, not quite looking at me. “Very dedicated. Very captain-like behavior from someone who isn’t captain.”

“Could say the same about you. Except you actually are captain, so the comparison falls apart immediately.” I start my warm-up, maintaining distance like we’re planets with incompatible orbits. “Besides, insomnia and ambition look identical at this hour. Very hard to distinguish between dedication and just avoiding your bed.”

“Is that what you’re doing? Avoiding things?” Her voice carries that knowing tone that makes me want to skate directly into the boards.

“I’m practicing. Some of us need extra work to maintain our scholarship-worthy performance. Not everyone has natural talent and daddy’s money as backup plans.”

The words come out sharper than intended, but Maddie just nods like she deserved it.

We skate separately, two people aggressively not skating together. She runs through her footwork sequence. I practice spins. The ice carries the sound of our blades like a conversation we’re not having.

After twenty minutes of this elaborate avoidance ballet, we both end up at the boards simultaneously. We reach for water bottles, hands almost touching before we both pull back.

“This is familiar,” I say, because apparently my mouth makes decisions without consulting my brain. “We used to do this as kids, remember? Come early, practice together before anyone else arrived. Back when we actually liked each other. When being friends wasn’t complicated by all this accumulated damage.”

Something shifts in Maddie’s expression like tectonic plates rearranging. “Why did you never write back?”

The question lands like ice cracking under unexpected weight. “What are you talking about? Write back to what?”

“After I moved.” Her voice has an edge that cuts through cold air. “I wrote you letters, Emily. So many letters. For months. Every week at first, then every two weeks when you didn’t respond.”

“I never got any letters,” I say, confusion making my voice smaller than intended. “Madison, I would have written back. You know I would have. You were my best friend. My only real friend.”

“Don’t lie to me.” Her knuckles are white against the boards, voice shaking with old hurt. “I wrote about the new school, about skating, about how much I missed you. I begged you to visit, to write, to just let me know you still cared. I told you everything—about the girls who made fun of my clothes, my accent, everything.”

Her voice cracks on the last word, and I see it—real pain, old and festering. This isn’t performance. This is truth she’s been carrying for years.

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