𝐥𝐨𝐬𝐭

fourteen

Delphine

I slam the door shut behind me, the sound echoing through my empty apartment.

The silence wraps around me like a thick blanket, but it's too suffocating—too still.

With a huff, I kick off my shoes, sending them skidding across the floor, and throw my bag onto the couch, not caring where it lands. My whole body is still trembling with adrenaline, the sharp edges of frustration and embarrassment prickling under my skin like a rash I can't scratch away.

Of all the people who could've seen me fall apart on the ice, why did it have to be him?

Kaiden McAllister, the very last person I would ever want to see me like that. He already thought I was some ice princess, a self-absorbed perfectionist who probably wouldn't notice if the world around her burned down.

And maybe that's true.

Maybe I am cold and distant and alone—because that's the only way to survive in a sport where everyone is competition, where no one's got your back but yourself.

Figure skating is nothing like hockey. In hockey, they have each other. Someone messes up, the team can cover for them. There's always someone to lean on.

But in figure skating? It's kill or be killed. And today, I barely survived.

I drop into the chair by my small dining table and bury my face in my hands. I can still feel the lingering heat from practice, the ache in my legs, the gnawing emptiness in my stomach.

My body is betraying me. I don't have time to be weak, to feel sick, to let anyone—even Kaiden—see the cracks in my armor.

The image of his face pops back into my mind, the look he gave me when he found me hunched over the trash can, too out of it to even care who was watching. There was something in his expression—curiosity maybe, or pity—that dug under my skin, triggering something sharp and defensive. He probably thought he'd stumbled on some dirty secret, something to hold over my head the next time we crossed paths.

I should have snapped at him, told him to leave, but my body wouldn't cooperate. And now he probably thinks I'm fragile. Weak.

I grit my teeth, hating how the memory claws at me.

I've worked too hard, sacrificed too much to let this moment of weakness define me. No one sees what it takes to be perfect—the exhaustion, the pain, the emptiness. They only see the end product, and that's how it should be. That's how I want it to be.

I shove back from the table and stalk toward the bathroom, needing to wash the lingering scent of the rink from my skin. As the hot water rains down, I scrub at my arms and shoulders, trying to wash away the day, the anger, the shame. But no matter how hard I try, it's still there, rooted deep beneath the surface. My fingers graze a fresh bruise on my shoulder, a reminder of every time I fell, of every flaw that won't go away.

My thoughts spiral as I finish up and wrap myself in a towel. I slip into an old hoodie and leggings, needing the comfort of soft fabric against my skin. My reflection stares back at me from the mirror above the sink, eyes rimmed with fatigue, but something more—something harder. Angrier.

"This is what you wanted, right?" I whisper to the empty room, my voice edged with bitterness. "To be perfect, even if it kills you."

It's not like I don't know why I do this.

I've had this dream since I was a kid, chasing the thrill of the ice, the rush of applause.

But dreams have costs, and sometimes, I wonder if I can keep paying them. I want to believe I'm strong enough, that I can ignore the whispers in my head, the hunger gnawing at my stomach, the way my muscles ache even when I'm off the ice. I want to believe I'm invincible.

But then someone like Kaiden comes along and sees through the cracks, and all of it starts to feel like a lie.

I curl up on the couch, hugging a pillow to my chest, feeling the weight of exhaustion settle over me. I should eat, get some strength back for tomorrow, but the thought makes my stomach turn. Instead, I focus on the emptiness, letting it ground me, reminding myself that control is power. If I can control this, I can control everything else.

Yet, despite everything, the way Kaiden looked at me keeps replaying in my mind.

I don't know why it bothers me so much.

It's not like his opinion matters.

He's just some cocky hockey player who thinks he's invincible because he has a team to back him up, people to cover for his mistakes. He'll never understand what it's like to be alone in this, to be judged for every misstep, every flaw.

He'll never know what it's like to be on the edge of breaking, and to keep going because you have no other choice.

The anger in me flares again, sharp and relentless. I wish he hadn't seen me like that, vulnerable and human. I wish he'd never stepped foot in that rink. It's like he's a shadow, following me even now, making me question myself in ways I don't want to.

But I won't let him get in my head. I've come too far for that.

Tomorrow, I'll be back on the ice, stronger and sharper than ever, and if he's there, he can watch all he wants.