You were a very good figure skater, one of the best in your age and skill group. You looked like poetry on nice, perfect jumps, good technique, movements making hard stunts look easy and effortless. Close to perfection.

You were so good that you’d been scouted to have a few years of extra and more professional training. Russia. The land of hardworking and perfect figure skaters. The ones who you’d be crying about competing against.

Sergei Rozanov himself was your coach, the famous coach who’d once been a champion himself and was known for his harsh and honest critique.

But with you? He was gentle. He’d barely notice any of his other prodigies but you. You were his new favourite.

He loved how easy you were to mold and correct. How you always did your best, and how sweet you looked when listening intently to understand him as he spoke to you in his Russian accent, not that he didn’t speak perfect English, you were always just so eager to not miss anything.