By fifteen, Nyah learned how to disappear in plain sight. It wasn't something anyone taught her. It happened the way rust did slow, unnoticed, inevitable. Teachers stopped calling on her because she never raised her hand. Classmates stopped inviting her places because she always said no. Even her parents spoke to her less, as if conversation required energy they no longer had.
Silence became her default state. Inside, though, nothing was quiet.
Her mind ran constantly numbers, movements, imagined ice patterns looping over and over until her head ached. At night, thoughts stacked on top of each other like unstable towers. You're behind and You're wasting years. Real skaters start at four. You're already late. Late felt like a sentence, Permanent and Unforgivable.
Nyah pressed her face into her pillow, teeth clenched so hard her jaw ached. The ceiling fan rattled overhead, threatening to fall apart. She imagined it crashing down, imagined the sudden silence afterward. The thought startled her ,not because it scared her but because it didn't. She lay there, heart racing, staring into the dark. Something inside her shifted small, almost imperceptible. A door cracked open where one had never been before. She didn't tell anyone.
Her grades stayed high. That was the compromise. "You smart," her father said one evening, glancing at her report card. "Use it." Nyah nodded. She always nodded. School became transactional, Show up, Perform and Leave. She learned how to answer questions without engaging, how to write essays that sounded thoughtful without revealing anything real. Adults praised her maturity. They liked quiet girls with good grades. They didn't ask why her hands shook when she stood still too long.
They didn't notice how she flinched at sudden noises. They didn't see her disappear into the bathroom during lunch, sitting on the toilet lid, breathing through panic while the sounds of other girls laughing echoed outside the stall. In those moments, she imagined the rink again. Cold ,Clean and Predictable. Ice didn't surprise you. It obeyed physics. It followed rules. People didn't. Amaya was the exception.
They sat together on the school steps one afternoon, backpacks discarded, heat radiating from the concrete. Amaya peeled an orange, fingers quick and practiced.
"You eating?" she asked, holding out a slice. Nyah shook her head. Her stomach felt hollow, twisted. "You haven't eaten since morning," Amaya said. Nyah didn't deny it. Amaya sighed, pressed the orange slice into her palm anyway. "Just hold it, then."
Nyah held it. The citrus smell cut through the stale air. Eventually, she ate it. Slowly. Amaya watched her without comment. That was her skill knowing when to push and when to sit back. "You thinking about leaving again," Amaya said. It wasn't a question. Nyah's fingers tightened around the peel. "I'm always thinking about it." Amaya nodded. "You scared?" Nyah considered the word. "I'm more scared of staying."
Amaya's gaze softened. "That bad?"
Nyah didn't answer. She didn't trust her voice. They sat in silence, the kind that didn't demand explanation. The panic attacks started that year. At first, Nyah thought she was sick. Her chest would tighten without warning, breath turning shallow and fast. Her hands tingled. Her vision tunneled. Once, during math class, she thought she was dying. She stumbled out of the room, barely making it to the bathroom before sliding down the wall, gasping. The floor was cold against her legs. She pressed her forehead to her knees, fighting the urge to scream. Breathe ,Count and Imagine the ice.
It took twenty minutes before the world came back into focus. No one asked where she'd gone. When she returned to class, the teacher barely glanced up. Nyah learned how to hide it after that. She learned the warning signs the buzzing under her skin, the tightening jaw. She learned how to excuse herself before it got bad. She learned that suffering quietly made people comfortable. At home, tension thickened. "You always in your room," Marcia said one night, irritation edging her voice. "You think that normal?"
Nyah kept her eyes on her plate. "I'm studying."
"All the time?" Nyah nodded. Again. Her father said nothing. He rarely did. Later, in her room, Nyah opened her notebook. The pages were filled now not just skating diagrams, but lists, Countries with rinks,
Scholarship possibilities she didn't qualify for and Costs she couldn't afford. At the bottom of one page, written smaller than the rest, were words she hadn't meant to write: If I never touch ice, what's the point?
She stared at the sentence for a long time then she closed the notebook.
That night, she stood in the dark, arms outstretched, spinning slowly. The room tilted. Her balance wavered. She didn't correct it this time. She let herself fall. The impact knocked the air from her lungs. She lay there, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding. The thought returned unwelcome, persistent. I could just stop. Nyah turned her face to the side, pressed it into the floor.
"I don't want to die," she whispered to no one. "I just don't want this." The words hung in the air, unanswered.
The Shape of Wanting , Wanting something too much has a shape. Nyah learned this the hard way. It curved her spine forward when she walked, like she was always bracing against wind no one else could feel. It tightened her jaw until headaches became background noise. It lived in her hands fingers twitching, restless, always searching for something solid to grip.
By sixteen, skating was no longer just refuge. It was pressure. Every year she didn't leave felt like a year stolen from her future self. Every night spent practicing on concrete felt like proof she was doing something wrong, too late, too slowly. She woke before dawn most mornings, slipping out of bed while the house still slept. The air was cooler then, almost kind. She practiced in the yard, barefoot on packed dirt, dew soaking into her skin. She counted rotations under her breath.
One. Two. Three.
Her ankle buckled once. She hit the ground hard, biting back a cry. Pain flared sharp and immediate. She stayed down, staring at the pale sky as it brightened overhead. A thought surfaced, uninvited. If you broke something, you'd have an excuse to stop. The idea scared her enough that she forced herself upright. She limped back inside before anyone noticed. The pressure followed her to school. She snapped at a classmate once for borrowing a pen. The girl stared at her, stunned. Nyah apologized immediately, heat flooding her face.
"What's wrong with you?" the girl muttered, walking away.
Nyah didn't know how to answer. She stopped talking almost entirely after that. Words felt dangerous and Unpredictable. Movement was safer. Amaya noticed the changes before anyone else. "You're burning yourself out," she said one afternoon, sitting beside Nyah under the shade of a mango tree. "You look like you fighting ghosts." Nyah's gaze stayed fixed on the ground. "I'm fine." Amaya snorted softly. "You lying, but you doing it badly."
Nyah's shoulders sagged. "I don't know how to slow down."
"Then stop for a day." Nyah laughed short, brittle. "I can't." Amaya studied her face, eyes narrowing slightly. "What happens if you do?" Nyah hesitated. The answer sat heavy in her chest. "It feels like I disappear." Amaya didn't argue. She reached out instead, fingers brushing Nyah's wrist briefly , Solid and Real.
"You don't disappear," she said. "You just… get quiet."
Quiet. Nyah wondered if Amaya knew how loud quiet could be. The first time the thought turned explicit, it was raining. Rain in Guyana was relentless, sheets of water pounding the ground, turning streets into rivers. Nyah stood at her window, watching it fall, watching people scatter. Her notebook lay open on the bed behind her.
She'd been calculating again Time, Money and Distance. The numbers never worked. Her chest tightened. Breath shortened. You're trapped. The thought arrived fully formed and traps don't open on their own. Nyah leaned her forehead against the glass. It was cool, grounding. Below, water rushed past the curb, fast and careless. If I jumped, her mind offered, clinical and calm, it would end the noise. She stepped back sharply, heart racing. "No," she said aloud, voice shaking.
The thought didn't argue. It simply waited. That scared her more than anything. She didn't tell Amaya. She didn't tell anyone. Instead, she worked harder. She studied skating biomechanics late into the night, eyes burning. She memorized routines frame by frame, whispering corrections under her breath. She ran until her lungs screamed, legs trembling. Pain became proof she was still trying. Still alive. Her parents noticed the exhaustion but misread it.
"You pushing yourself too much for school," Marcia said one evening. "This obsession….."
"It's not obsession," Nyah snapped before she could stop herself. The room went still. Her father looked up slowly. "Watch your tone." Nyah's chest heaved. She felt the familiar heat rising, emotions surging too fast to manage. "You don't listen," she said, voice breaking. "You never listen."
Marcia's expression hardened. "Because what you saying don't make sense." Something in Nyah cracked. She turned and walked out, ignoring the call of her name. She shut her bedroom door and slid down, shaking. Tears came then hot, uncontrollable, humiliating. She pressed her fist into her mouth to keep from making noise . In her head, the ice shattered beneath her feet.
For the first time, she imagined falling and not getting up. The image stayed. That night, she lay awake, staring into darkness. I don't want to die, she thought. I just want the pain to stop. The distinction mattered to her. It was the thin line she balanced on. Somewhere beyond the walls, the world slept. Nyah stayed awake, counting imaginary laps around a rink she still hadn't seen, holding on to movement because stopping felt like the most dangerous thing she could do.
The body keeps its own records . Nyah learned this the morning her knee gave out without warning. She was practicing behind the house, the ground still damp from last night's rain. Her feet moved automatically steps memorized, sequence drilled into muscle that had never known ice but believed in it anyway.
She pivoted. Her knee twisted wrong. There was no dramatic snap. No cinematic scream. Just a sudden, sickening instability like stepping onto ground that wasn't there.
She went down hard. Dirt scraped her palms. Pain shot up her leg, bright and immediate. She sucked in a sharp breath, teeth clenched, waiting for it to fade. It didn't. Nyah rolled onto her back, staring at the sky. Clouds drifted lazily overhead, indifferent. Her knee throbbed, heat blooming beneath the skin. Get up. The thought came reflexively. She tried.
Her leg buckled beneath her weight, sending her crashing back down. This time, she cried out short, raw, startled by the sound of her own voice.
The door creaked open. Her father stepped outside, mug in hand. He froze when he saw her on the ground. "What you doing?" he asked, voice sharp with concern he didn't know how to show.
Nyah swallowed. "I fell." He approached slowly, eyes scanning her posture, the way she guarded her leg. "You hurt?"
"No," she said automatically. The lie tasted bitter. He crouched beside her, set the mug down. "Try stand." She shook her head, panic creeping in. "Just-just give me a second." Seconds passed. The pain pulsed, steady and insistent.
Her father sighed. "This is what I talking about. You going to damage yourself." Nyah's vision blurred. Not from pain ,from fear. "What if I already have?" she whispered. He didn't answer. He helped her inside instead, arm firm around her shoulders. His grip was careful, almost gentle. It surprised her. The tenderness didn't last. She missed school for two days. Her knee swelled, stiff and angry. Walking hurt, Sitting hurt and Everything hurt.
The notebook stayed closed. That scared her more than the injury. On the third day, Amaya showed up unannounced, backpack slung over one shoulder.
"What happened?" she asked, eyes dropping immediately to Nyah's wrapped knee. Nyah shrugged. "Nothing."
Amaya raised an eyebrow. "You fell on nothing?" Nyah didn't respond. They sat on the bed, the room heavy with unspoken things. Amaya picked up the notebook from the desk, thumb brushing the worn cover.
"You haven't opened this," she said quietly.
Nyah's jaw tightened. "I can't right now."
"Why?"
Nyah stared at the wall. "Because if I do, I'll remember what I'm not doing." Amaya was quiet for a long moment. Then, softly: "You think hurting yourself is the price?"
Nyah flinched. "I didn't do it on purpose."
"I know." Amaya's voice didn't waver. "But you keep pushing like your body disposable."
Disposable.
The word lodged somewhere deep. Nyah's hands shook. She clenched them in her lap. "If I stop, everything gets worse." Amaya leaned back against the wall, eyes on the ceiling. "You ever think maybe everything already is worse and you just used to it?" Nyah didn't answer. Because the truth was she had thought that. Many times. When Nyah returned to school, whispers followed her again.
"Why she limping?"
"She always injure."
"She strange."
She moved slower now, each step measured. The pain forced her to be present in her body in a way she hated.
During lunch, she sat alone in the bathroom, knee propped up, listening to laughter echo down the hall. The thoughts crept in, subtle and sharp. This is it. This is how it ends. Stuck. Broken. Going nowhere. Her chest tightened. Breath shortened. She pressed her palms flat against the tile, grounding herself. Ice, she told herself. Cold and Smooth. The image flickered unstable. For the first time, it didn't fully form. Panic surged.
"No," she whispered, tears threatening. "No, no"
The bell rang, loud and sudden. She flinched hard, heart racing. She stayed on the floor until the hallway emptied. At home that night, her mother sat on the edge of the bed. "You can't keep doing this," Marcia said, voice low but firm. "You hurting yourself for nothing."
Nyah's throat burned. "It's not nothing."
"What is it then?" Marcia asked. "Because all I see is my child wearing herself down for a fantasy."
Nyah looked at her - really looked.
Her mother's eyes were tired. Worried. Afraid in a way Nyah hadn't allowed herself to see before.
"I don't know how to exist without it," Nyah said quietly. The words hung between them, fragile and exposed. Marcia stood abruptly. "You need rest," she said, retreating into practicality. "We talk later." Later never came. That night, Nyah lay awake, knee aching, mind racing. The thought returned clearer now. If I can't move forward… maybe I don't need to move at all. She turned onto her side, tears slipping silently onto the pillow.
In the dark, she imagined ice again. This time, she stood still at the center of the rink. No movement, No sound and the stillness felt terrifying.