Chapter 1: Stillness is safer than trust
The house is too quiet for how many people live in it.
Not peaceful quiet. Not the kind that feels soft.
The kind that listens back.
I sit cross-legged on my bed, laptop balanced against my thighs, the glow of the screen washing everything in a dull blue that makes the room feel colder than it is. My fingers hover over the keyboard for a second before I force them to keep moving, finishing the last paragraph of a paper I’ve already rewritten three times.
“…discipline is not simply physical endurance, but psychological control over fear responses…”
I pause.
Backspace.
“…psychological control over instinct.”
That’s better.
Fear makes it sound like something temporary. Something you can outgrow.
Instinct doesn’t leave.
I hit save. Close the document. Sit there for a second longer than I need to, staring at my reflection in the black screen. Pale face. Dark hair pulled loose from a braid, falling over my shoulder in uneven waves. Eyes too sharp for someone who’s supposed to look calm.
Downstairs, someone laughs. Loud. Easy. Effortless.
It doesn’t belong to me.
Nothing in this house does.
The athletics department thought it would be a good idea, putting all the figure skaters together. Easier schedules. Better “team bonding.” Less commuting. More control. Most of them didn’t question it. Why would they? They grew up in houses bigger than this one, with parents who paid for private coaches and international competitions before they could legally drive.
They know how to exist in spaces like this.
I don’t.
To them, I’m the scholarship girl. The quiet one. The one who doesn’t go out, doesn’t drink, doesn’t date, doesn’t… participate.
Weird.
They don’t say it to my face. Not directly.
But I hear it anyway.
In the pauses when I walk into a room. In the way conversations shift around me instead of including me. In the looks they think I don’t catch.
I don’t mind.
It’s easier this way.
The less they know, the less they can take.
My fingers brush against the ring on my right hand, turning it once without thinking. The metal is cool, familiar. Grounding.
A rule.
A boundary.
A reminder.
There’s a knock on my door before it opens, because Camille doesn’t really wait for permission.
“You’re still alive,” she says, leaning against the frame like she owns it. Which, in a way, she kind of does. Her parents probably funded half the rink.
I glance up. “Last I checked.”
She smiles, small and real, not the polished kind the others wear. “You missed dinner.”
“I wasn’t hungry.”
“You’re never hungry.”
I shrug. It’s easier than explaining.
Camille studies me for a second, like she’s trying to decide how much to push. She doesn’t push much. That’s why she’s the only one I don’t avoid.
“Practice got moved,” she says instead. “Tomorrow. Early. Like… criminally early.”
“Fine.”
She hesitates. “You okay?”
The question hangs there, simple and impossible.
I nod.
Because that’s what I do.
She doesn’t call me out on it. Just gives a small nod back, like she understands something I didn’t say, and pushes off the doorframe. “Try to sleep, Hestia.”
“I will.”
She leaves. The door clicks shut.
The house goes quiet again.
I exhale slowly, shoulders dropping a fraction of an inch once I’m alone. My gaze drifts to the window, where the faint glow of the rink lights cuts through the dark like something distant and unreachable.
This is where I ended up.
Not by accident.
Not by luck.
By necessity.
Skating was the only thing I was ever good at that didn’t require me to trust anyone.
When I was younger, it was just… movement. Something I could control when everything else felt unpredictable. My mom worked late. My stepdad stayed home more than he should have. The house felt smaller at night, like the walls leaned in just enough to make breathing harder.
I learned quickly how to be quiet.
How to move without being noticed.
How to stay still when it mattered.
Stillness meant nothing changed.
Nothing changing meant nothing got worse.
The rink was different.
Cold. Open. Honest.
The ice didn’t pretend to be safe. It just was what it was.
If you fell, it was because of you.
At least, that’s what I believed.
Until I learned it wasn’t always true.
My fingers tighten slightly against the fabric of my sleeve, the memory sliding in whether I want it to or not.
Sixteen.
Pairs skating.
Trust, packaged and choreographed into something beautiful enough to convince judges it was real.
Adrian Kessler’s hands at my waist, firm, practiced. The lift we’d done a hundred times. A thousand.
Up.
Air.
Weightless.
And then—
Nothing.
No grip.
No correction.
Just absence.
The fall wasn’t what stayed with me.
It was the moment before it.
The split second where I realized he wasn’t trying to catch me.
That he could.
And chose not to.
I hit the ice hard enough to knock the breath out of me, hard enough that the sound echoed long after the pain dulled. But when I looked up, it wasn’t fear I saw on his face.
It was irritation.
Like I’d inconvenienced him.
Like I’d done something wrong.
I quit pairs the next day.
Didn’t argue. Didn’t explain.
Just walked away.
No one questioned it much. I was good enough to switch to singles. Good enough to make it look like a strategic decision instead of what it actually was.
A refusal.
No one lifts me.
No one holds me.
No one gets that close again.
It’s not fear.
It’s understanding.
People don’t always drop you by accident.
Sometimes they just… decide to let go.
A laugh echoes faintly from downstairs again, louder this time, followed by the sound of music starting up. Someone’s probably having people over. Or already did.
I don’t check.
I don’t go down.
I slide off the bed instead, bare feet hitting the cold floor, and cross the room to turn off the light. Darkness settles in immediately, softer than the artificial glow of the screen.
For a moment, I just stand there.
Listening.
Counting my breaths without thinking.
One.
Two.
Three.
Control.
That’s all this is.
Control over my body. My space. My choices.
No one gets to take that from me again.
Not here.
Not ever.
Across campus, the hockey team is probably finishing practice right now. Loud. Violent. Messy in a way figure skating never allows itself to be.
Different world.
Different rules.
I prefer it that way.
I turn toward the bed, pulling the covers back with slow, deliberate movements, like even this needs to be precise. Predictable.
Safe.
Because as long as everything stays exactly where I put it—
Nothing can catch me off guard.
Nothing can get close enough to hurt me.
And I can stay exactly like this.
Untouched.
