Nyah packed slowly. Not because there was much to pack, but because every item felt like a decision. Every folded shirt asked a question she didn't want to answer. What stays. What goes. What version of you survives this. Her suitcase lay open on the bed like a mouth waiting to be fed. The zipper teeth glinted under the dim bulb, impatient. She folded clothes with mechanical precision, Stack, Align and Press flat. She left space between layers like she was afraid things might bruise each other. On the desk sat the notebook she'd carried for years creases softened by sweat, corners bent from being shoved into bags in a hurry. She picked it up, thumb brushing over the worn cover.
This held her. Lists. Fears. Imagined routines for days she hadn't lived yet. Sketches of footwork that never touched ice. Notes on edge control she learned from videos watched at two in the morning while her chest felt like it was collapsing inward. She hesitated. Then placed it carefully into the suitcase. Some things were non-negotiable. Her parents avoided the topic by avoiding her. Meals passed with minimal conversation. Questions were practical and bloodless.
"When your flight?"
"You check visa twice?"
"You got somewhere to stay?"
Nyah answered calmly, evenly, like this was a business transaction instead of a fracture. No one said I'll miss you.
No one said I'm proud. That hurt more than yelling ever could.
On her last night, her mother stood in the doorway of Nyah's room, arms crossed.
"You think this going to make you happy?" Marcia asked.
Nyah paused, hands resting on the edge of the suitcase. "I don't know."
Marcia scoffed. "Then why go?"
Nyah met her gaze. "Because staying already proved it won't."
Her mother looked away first. She didn't come back.
Amaya arrived the next morning before the sun had fully decided to rise. She didn't knock. She never did. Nyah was sitting on the floor, lacing her shoes too tightly, fingers trembling.
Amaya crouched in front of her. "Hey."
Nyah exhaled shakily. "If I throw up, don't judge me."
Amaya smiled faintly. "If you don't, I'll be surprised."
They rode to the airport in silence, the kind that held too much to speak. The city passed by the window vendors setting up stalls, children in uniforms, streets waking up like nothing monumental was happening. That felt wrong. Nyah watched everything like she was already a ghost.
At the terminal, the noise hit her all at once rolling suitcases, overlapping announcements, the sharp smell of coffee and disinfectant. Her heart began to race. This is real, her body screamed. This is real. Amaya grabbed her hand. Not tight. Just enough.
"You don't have to be fearless," she said quietly. "Just don't disappear."
Nyah swallowed hard. "I don't know who I'll be there."
Amaya squeezed her fingers. "You don't know who you'll be if you stay either."
Nyah nodded, eyes burning. They stood like that longer than necessary, people flowing around them like water around stone.
Finally, Amaya pulled her into a hug. Nyah broke.
Her grip was desperate, fingers digging into Amaya's jacket like she could anchor herself there. Her chest heaved, breath uneven, tears soaking fabric.
"I don't want to lose you," Nyah whispered.
"You won't," Amaya said, voice steady even as her own eyes shone. "Distance isn't disappearance."
Nyah pulled back, wiping her face roughly. "Promise you'll still call me out when I'm being stupid."
Amaya laughed softly. "That's not a promise. That's a habit."
Nyah smiled small, fragile, real. Boarding was announced. The line moved.
Nyah's feet felt heavy, like the ground was resisting her. She looked back once. Amaya stood near the glass wall, arms wrapped around herself now, watching Nyah with an expression that held pride and grief in equal measure. Nyah lifted her hand. Amaya lifted hers.
That was it. No dramatic last words. No cinematic moment. Just separation happening quietly, efficiently. On the plane, Nyah took the window seat. As the aircraft lifted, Guyana stretched beneath her green and dense and familiar. The land that shaped her receded, indifferent to her leaving. Her chest tightened painfully.
She pressed her forehead to the window, eyes closed. Don't romanticize this, she told herself. You're not brave. You're scared. But the fear didn't stop her. As clouds swallowed the ground, the ice appeared in her mind again. This time, it wasn't cracked. It wasn't smooth either. It was unknown. Nyah opened her eyes, breath steadying. Leaving wasn't a door. It was a fall. And she had just stepped off the edge.
Cold is not just temperature. Cold is sound. Nyah learned that the moment she stepped off the plane. It sliced through her clothes, through muscle, straight into bone clean, invasive, unapologetic. Her breath hitched instantly, lungs rebelling as if she'd inhaled something sharp. She froze on the jet bridge, panic flaring. Move, she told herself. People are behind you. She moved. The airport smelled different. Sterile. Metallic. The lights too white, too bright, like they were trying to expose something she hadn't agreed to reveal. Her hands shook as she clutched her documents. The immigration officer's questions blurred together purpose of visit, length of stay, address. "Training," Nyah said when asked why she'd come.
The word felt foreign in her mouth. The officer studied her for a moment longer than necessary, then stamped her passport and waved her through. Just like that. Years of wanting reduced to a thud of ink. The shuttle ride to the hostel was silent. Nyah sat rigid, staring out the window at streets dusted with snow. Everything looked muted, softened, like the world had been turned down a notch. Cars glided instead of rolled. People walked with their shoulders hunched, faces hidden in scarves, moving with a purpose that felt efficient and cold.
She hugged her coat tighter around herself. This is where it starts, she thought. Her stomach twisted. The hostel room was small and shared. Two bunk beds. A narrow window. Pale walls that smelled faintly of bleach. Her roommate wasn't there yet. Nyah sat on the lower bunk, suitcase at her feet, suddenly unsure what to do with her hands. Back home, she'd imagined this moment differently. Standing tall. Confident. Ready. Instead, she felt twelve years old and deeply unqualified. She lay back on the thin mattress and stared at the ceiling. The thought slipped in quietly. You could still leave.
Her chest tightened. She rolled onto her side, pressing her face into the pillow until the thought passed.
The rink visit was scheduled for the next morning. Nyah barely slept. Every time she closed her eyes, her body jolted awake heart racing, mind spiraling. The room felt unfamiliar, hostile. Even the silence was wrong. When morning came, she dressed slowly, hands clumsy from nerves. She ate nothing. Outside, the air burned her lungs again. Her knee protested with every step, stiff from travel and cold. She followed the directions carefully, heart pounding harder with each block. Then she saw it. The rink.
It wasn't grand. No sweeping glass walls. No dramatic signage.
Just a squat building with frost clinging to its edges like something alive. Nyah stopped walking. Her legs refused to move. This is it, her mind whispered. This is where you find out if you were lying to yourself. Her throat tightened painfully. She forced herself forward.
Inside, the smell hit her first. Cold metal. Rubber. Something sharp and clean she couldn't name. The sound followed blades cutting ice, a low, constant scrape that made her chest ache. Her vision blurred. She stood just inside the entrance, gripping the strap of her bag like it might anchor her. Skaters moved across the ice with casual confidence. Children, teenagers, adults. Bodies that knew this place. Feet that trusted the ground beneath them.
Nyah's palms went slick with sweat. You don't belong here, a voice hissed. She swallowed hard and walked to the front desk. "My name is Nyah," she said, voice barely steady. "I'm here for an assessment."
The woman behind the desk smiled politely. "You can wait there."
Nyah nodded and turned away, heart hammering. She sat on a bench, watching. Every glide felt like a reminder of distance. Every jump a quiet accusation. Her knee throbbed. Her chest felt tight, breath shallow. You've never even stood on ice. The thought landed like a blow.
A man approached her a few minutes later. Mid-forties. Calm eyes. Scar across one eyebrow.
"You're Nyah," he said, not a question.
She stood immediately. "Yes."
"I'm Coach Bennett," he said. "Come on." Her legs felt numb as she followed him to the rink entrance.
"Before anything else," he said, stopping just short of the ice, "I want to be clear. This is an assessment, not a promise."
Nyah nodded quickly. "I understand."
"You will fall," he added. "Probably a lot."
She almost laughed.
"That's fine," she said. "I'm used to falling." Something flickered in his expression interest, maybe. Or caution.
"Skates," he said, gesturing.
Nyah stared at them. Real skates. She sat down, hands trembling as she laced them up. The leather was stiff, unfamiliar. The blades gleamed, sharp and narrow. When she stood, her balance wavered violently. Panic surged. Breathe. She placed one foot on the ice. Then the other. Cold shot up through her legs, immediate and overwhelming. Her body tensed, every muscle screaming. She tried to step. Her foot slid. She went down hard, hip slamming into ice, breath punched out of her lungs. The sound echoed. Heat flooded her face.
Skaters glanced over, then looked away.
Coach Bennett crouched beside her. "You all right?"
Nyah nodded, forcing herself to breathe through the sting. She pushed herself up, legs shaking.
"Again," she said. The word surprised even her. She stepped forward.
Slipped. Fell. Got up. Again. Each fall chipped something away fear, pride, illusion. Pain bloomed across her body, sharp and real.
But beneath it, something else sparked. Familiar. Alive. She wasn't graceful. She wasn't good. But she was there.
Coach Bennett watched silently as Nyah fell and rose and fell again. Finally, he said, "All right. That's enough for today."
Nyah nodded, chest heaving, body aching everywhere. As she stepped off the ice, legs trembling uncontrollably, she realized something with startling clarity. This place would not save her. But it would tell her the truth. And whatever that truth was, she had already paid too much to look away. Nyah couldn't feel her legs. They shook beneath her like borrowed limbs as she unlaced the skates, fingers clumsy, nails numb from cold. Each tug sent a fresh pulse of pain up her calves, into her knees, settling deep in her bones. Her hip throbbed where it had met the ice. Good.
Pain meant she was still present. Coach Bennett stood a few feet away, arms crossed, watching her with an expression she couldn't read. Not impressed. Not disappointed. Something quieter. Assessment faces, she realized, were designed not to reveal anything.
"You've never skated," he said finally.
Nyah nodded. "No."
"You know the theory," he continued. "Edge control. Weight transfer. Timing."
"Yes."
"You learn from videos?"
"Videos. Books. Slow-motion breakdowns." She hesitated, then added, "My body knows some of it. Just not the surface."
He hummed softly, considering.
"Your body is tight," he said. "Guarded."
Nyah swallowed. "I know."
"Fear?"
"Yes."
He nodded once, like that answer satisfied something. "And injury." Her heart jumped. "My knee."
He glanced at it. "I saw." Nyah waited for dismissal. For the quiet this won't work she'd rehearsed in her head.
Instead, he said, "Sit." She obeyed.
"This program doesn't create champions," Coach Bennett said. "It finds out who can survive process."
Nyah lifted her head. "I can."
He studied her carefully. "Everyone says that." Nyah didn't argue. She let the ice answer for her.
The next week passed in a blur of cold and bruises. Nyah was allowed limited ice time early mornings, when the rink was quiet and forgiving. She spent more time on the boards than away from them. Her falls grew less violent. Her steps, marginally more controlled. Progress measured in millimeters. Her body screamed constantly.
Her knee flared, especially in the cold, sending sharp warnings she pretended not to hear. She iced it obsessively, stretched religiously, swallowed pain like a tax she'd agreed to pay. At night, in the hostel, she lay awake cataloging every mistake.
Her roommate came and went, polite but distant. Nyah didn't have the energy to explain herself to strangers. Loneliness settled heavy in her chest. Calls home were short. Her mother answered but spoke carefully, like words might become weapons if mishandled. Her father stayed mostly silent.
Amaya was different.
"Describe the ice," Amaya said on their first call.
Nyah closed her eyes. "It's loud. It talks back."
Amaya smiled on the screen. "You sound alive."
Nyah laughed softly. "I'm terrified."
"Good," Amaya said. "Means you still care." Sometimes Nyah cried after they hung up. Sometimes she just stared at the wall until the ache dulled. Midweek, Coach Bennett pulled her aside.
"You push through pain," he observed.
Nyah tensed. "I have to."
"No," he said. "You want to." The distinction landed heavy.
"Pain will end you faster than fear," he continued. "You don't listen to your body. You fight it."
Nyah stared at the ice. "My body never listened to me."
Coach Bennett was quiet for a moment. "That kind of relationship will cost you." Nyah nodded. She already knew. The dark thoughts returned with sharper teeth. Alone in the hostel bathroom, staring at her reflection eyes hollowed by exhaustion, skin dull she felt the familiar whisper curl around her ribs. If this doesn't work, what's left?
Her hands trembled. She gripped the sink until her knuckles went white.
"Not today," she whispered.
She went back to the rink. On the seventh day, Coach Bennett watched her attempt a basic glide without touching the boards. Nyah pushed off carefully, knees bent, arms held awkwardly for balance. She wobbled. Corrected. Her blade caught an edge.
She fell hard. The breath left her body in a sharp rush. She lay there, staring at the ceiling lights, chest heaving. Coach Bennett didn't rush to her side. Nyah rolled over slowly, pushing herself up, pain flaring bright and hot. She stood. Tried again.
This time, she made it halfway across the ice. It wasn't pretty.
It was real. Coach Bennett nodded once. After practice, he handed her a folded sheet of paper.
"Conditional acceptance," he said. "Three months."
Nyah's heart slammed against her ribs.
"You'll train fundamentals. Strength. Balance. Rehabilitation for that knee. No promises beyond that." Her hands shook as she took the paper.
"Thank you," she whispered.
Coach Bennett met her eyes. "This won't be kind."
Nyah nodded. "Neither has my life." Something like respect crossed his face.
That night, alone in her bunk, Nyah stared at the ceiling again. Her body ached everywhere. Her knee pulsed. Her heart felt raw.
But beneath the pain, something fragile and dangerous bloomed.
Not hope. Permission. She pressed the acceptance paper to her chest, breathing shallow and careful. She hadn't made it. She had been allowed to try. And for now, that was enough to keep her alive.