[Emily’s POV]

I’m halfway through my calculus homework when I realize I haven’t worried about Maddie in three days. The thought stops me mid-equation, pencil hovering over paper. When was the last time I checked her expression for that mask she wears? When did I last analyze her responses for hidden meanings?

The realization feels like relief. Like I’ve been holding my breath for weeks and can finally exhale. We’ve been good lately. Really good. Actually communicating, actually happy.

The pairs practice yesterday was smooth, our timing syncing up naturally instead of forced. This morning at breakfast, Maddie made a stupid joke about my coffee order and I laughed so hard I nearly choked. Things are working. We’re working.

My phone buzzes and Mom’s name lights up the screen. I answer on the second ring. “Hey, Mom.”

“Hi, sweetheart. How are you? How’s everything going?” Her voice carries that particular brand of maternal concern that suggests she’s been thinking about asking this question all day.

I lean back in my chair, glancing at Maddie’s empty bed. She’s at the library studying for her anatomy exam. “We’re good, actually. Really good. Training’s going well, we’re both healthy, no drama.”

“And Maddie?” Mom asks carefully. “How’s she doing with everything? The last time we talked, you were worried about her after that competition.”

“She’s found her footing,” I say, and I mean it. “I think that rough patch after the competition was just processing everything. She seems more like herself now. More present, more engaged. We’re communicating better.”

There’s a pause, then Mom’s voice warms. “I’m so happy to hear that, Emily. I know how worried you’ve been. It sounds like you two have really worked through things.”

We talk for another ten minutes about classes and Regionals and whether I’m eating enough vegetables. When I hang up, I’m smiling. The constant anxiety about Maddie’s mental state has faded into background noise, replaced by comfortable routine.

That evening, we have pairs practice scheduled for six. I get to the rink first, already warmed up and stretching when Maddie arrives.

She’s got her hair pulled back in that sleek ponytail she always wears for practice, her competition jacket zipped up against the rink’s cold.

When she sees me, she grins and raises her water bottle in greeting. “Ready to nail this?” she asks, dropping her bag by the boards.

“Always,” I say, and we move onto the ice together. The practice is one of those rare sessions where everything clicks. Our opening sequence flows smoothly, transitions sharp and clean. The side-by-side triple salchows land in perfect unison.

When we move into the lift, Maddie’s timing is impeccable—she goes up easily, her body aligned and controlled, and I can feel the trust in how she releases tension and lets me support her weight completely. “Beautiful!” Coach Marquette calls from the boards. “Again, same energy.”

We run it again. And again. Each repetition feels better than the last, muscle memory kicking in until it’s not about thinking through elements but just moving together.

When we finish the full run-through, I’m breathing hard but grinning. Maddie’s flushed from exertion, wisps of hair escaping her ponytail, and she’s smiling too—bright and genuine.

Coach skates over as we catch our breath. “That was excellent work,” she says, her tone carrying approval that she doesn’t give easily.

Pride swells in my chest. Maddie bumps her shoulder against mine, and we exchange a look that says we did it.

We continue walking, our hands linked, our steps falling into an easy rhythm. I’m thinking about the program, about the next steps in our training plan, about how genuinely good this feels.

We’ve come so far—from those first awkward practices where every touch felt loaded, to now, where skating together feels natural as breathing.

I glance over at Maddie, wanting to share that thought, but something in her expression makes me pause. Her smile is bright, but there’s a distance behind it that wasn’t there ten minutes ago. “Hey,” I say, squeezing her hand. “You good?”

The smile doesn’t waver. “Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” There it is—that particular tone. Not quite cold, but definitely a few degrees cooler than the temperature we’ve been operating at. It’s the voice that says: back off, we’re not going there.

I know that voice. I’ve heard it directed at other people plenty of times. Having it aimed at me feels like touching ice with bare fingers. “Just checking,” I say lightly, even though my chest tightens. “Big day and all.”

“It was great,” she says, and her hand is still in mine, still warm. “Really great, Em.” The “Em” is supposed to soften it, I think. Make it less of a wall.

I want to push. Want to ask what shifted between the ice and here. But I know Maddie well enough to recognize when a door is closed. And this door? Firmly shut, with a polite “Do Not Disturb” sign hanging on it. So I don’t push.

We walk the rest of the way in silence, and I tell myself it’s comfortable. That everything’s fine. That whatever momentary weirdness I sensed was just fatigue or stress or nothing at all. But that tight feeling in my chest doesn’t quite go away.