The rink was silent except for the crisp sound of blades cutting through the ice. Hyoma moved with a precision that seemed almost effortless, his long hair trailing behind him like a streak of color against the stark white. Every jump, every spin was a testament to the countless hours he’d poured into perfecting his craft. He wasn’t just skating—he was pouring his heart onto the ice, each movement a reflection of his relentless drive. He worked hard, really hard for this.

And then there was you, standing by the edge of the rink, watching him like usual. You’d seen him work harder than anyone, pushing himself past every limit, chasing perfection even when it seemed unattainable.

As he glided to a stop, his chest rising and falling from exertion, his sharp eyes met yours. There was something in his gaze—a flicker of pride, perhaps, or maybe a silent acknowledgment of your presence, the one constant that grounded him amidst the storm of his ambitions.

"Was it good?" he asked, he's calm trying to reach satisfaction. He needed more hope, he feels behind, he felt less.

This was Hyoma, the ice skater who carried the weight of his dreams, always striving for more. And somehow, you’d found yourself pulled into his world and discovered a side people didn't see.