𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭

one

Delphine

The alarm blares before the sun even rises, a sharp, insistent noise cutting through the darkness.

I swipe it off and blink at the time—4:45 a.m. It's early even by my standards, but I've grown to accept it. These early hours belong to me, the time when the rest of the world is dead silent. My mind is foggy as I sit up and stretch, letting the reality of the day sink in.

There's something oddly satisfying about waking up before dawn, knowing that I'm already moving while everyone else is still wrapped in sleep.

I slide out of bed and shuffle to the bathroom, flicking on the light that's way too bright for this hour. The water heats up slowly, and I step in, letting the hot spray jolt me awake.

My eyes stay half-closed as I go through the motions, washing off the sleep but keeping the calm, focused headspace I need before stepping onto the ice. I brush my teeth, leaning over the sink and staring at my reflection, blue eyes peering back under slightly dark circles that only someone as obsessive as I am would notice. There's no expression on my face, just a quiet resolve.

In my room, I pull on my leggings, a fitted long-sleeved top, and my leg warmers, adjusting each piece with precise, practiced movements.

Everything is snug, tailored to keep me warm without restricting my movement. I tug my socks over the leggings and pull my hair into a low, messy bun. Breakfast is a non-option; the diet demands strict control, and I've long since learned to ignore the morning hunger.

It's not worth it, anyway—food weighs you down, and on the ice, I need to feel light, untethered. Grabbing my headphones, I rest them around my neck, feeling their comfortable weight.

I make my way across campus, the early morning chill biting at my skin as I walk. The rink isn't far, but the cold gnaws at my hands and face, leaving me awake, alert. I take comfort in the quiet. No students, no professors, just the gentle hum of early morning—mine and mine alone.

When I reach the rink, the smell of cold air and fresh ice hits me. It's pristine and untouched, just how I like it. In here, the chill wraps around me, a silent welcome back. I lace up my skates in slow, practiced movements, feeling the leather tighten around my ankles, rolling each foot to feel the snugness and support. I glance at the ice, an expanse of perfect emptiness stretching before me. I savor the silence for a moment, as if the ice itself is waiting.

With one push, I glide forward, feeling the smooth, cool surface beneath me, my skates cutting cleanly through the ice. I pick up speed, letting my legs work, building up a rhythm until I feel the first hint of freedom in my muscles loosening, letting go.

There's no routine this morning—this is just for me. Freestyle. I let my body move the way it wants to, following an invisible rhythm only I can hear. Each movement is instinctive, sharp but fluid, my limbs extending, twisting, turning, like I'm moving through water.

I push off into a spin, feeling the thrill as I pull my arms in, tightening, letting the world blur until it's just me, the ice, and the spinning motion that feels almost like flying. I stretch out of it, pushing into a series of steps, my muscles burning in a satisfying way, like every inch of me is alive, alert.

There's no audience, no expectations here—just the release of every thought, every worry, every piece of myself that feels too heavy anywhere else. This is why I wake up before dawn, why I push through every day. This is where I feel free.

The routine winds down, and as I glide to a stop, a quiet satisfaction settles over me. My breaths come hard and fast, and my muscles feel like jelly, in the best way. I sit down on the bench by the rink to untie my skates, hands a little shaky from exertion. I change into sweats, slipping off the skates and pulling on thick socks and sneakers, letting the warmth of my hoodie sink into my skin.

The day shifts from isolation to noise, as I blend back into the world outside the rink. My first lecture fills up fast, students pouring in, buzzing with chatter. I slide into my usual seat, half-hidden toward the back.

The professor drones on about things that feel tedious after the clarity of the ice. I focus on the notes, though, careful lines of ink across the page.

When I finally return to my apartment, it's a small, organized space—everything in its place, just the way I like it. I unpack my textbooks, flipping them open to review what I missed, but my mind keeps drifting back to the rink, to the way the ice felt beneath me.

There's something about the intensity of skating that makes everything else feel small, almost trivial.

The hunger gnaws at me as I finally prepare something to eat—a simple salad, light enough to keep my body balanced. I let the cold, crunchy lettuce fill the void, chasing away the hollow ache in my stomach. Afterward, I take a long shower, letting the steam fog up the glass, washing off every lingering reminder of the day. I towel off and put on a loose shirt and shorts, curling up with my food. I eat it slowly, mechanically, my mind already drifting to what's left to do.

I pull on a hoodie and head outside, wandering through campus. The evening is cool, with a golden light casting soft shadows across the sidewalks. The quiet hum of campus life surrounds me, students laughing, talking, but I keep to myself, sinking into the solitude of the walk. There's something calming about moving without purpose, letting my thoughts go as my steps fall into rhythm with the faint beat of distant music drifting from open windows.

Back at my apartment, I collapse onto the couch and flip through the channels, half-watching some drama on TV that I've seen a hundred times but never really paid attention to.

The routines all blur together—classes, skating, studying, eating. It's all just background noise, passing time. Eventually, I turn off the TV and stretch, a quiet ache settling into my muscles. I switch off the light and slip under the covers, letting the darkness wash over me. Another day down, and tomorrow... well, tomorrow I'll do it all over again.