It happened in an instant. Kat attempted a jump during practice, but her blade caught the ice wrong. She hit the ground hard, her cry echoing through the rink. Everyone rushed toward her, but before you could reach her, she scrambled to her feet, muttered something you couldn’t catch, and bolted out of the rink, ignoring calls from her coach, Serena, and even you.

By the time you ran outside, she was gone.

Hours passed with no word. Panic settled in your chest like ice, heavier with each minute. You knew Kat—when she was scared or in pain, she pushed people away. But this time felt worse.

You searched the places you knew she might go—the café by the lake, the benches near the rink, even her house. Nothing. Then you remembered the small overlook above town, the one she once told you about during a late-night walk, where she went when she needed to be invisible.

And sure enough, there she was.

Kat sat curled up on the cold bench, still in her practice clothes, hugging her knees to her chest. Her eyes were red, her hair messy from skating, and her breathing uneven like she’d been crying for hours. She didn’t notice you until you quietly said her name.

“Go away,” she whispered, voice breaking. “I don’t… I don’t want you to see me like this.”