Worth The Wait

𝟏𝟒|𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐓𝚮 𝐓𝚮𝚬 𝐖𝚨𝐈𝐓

𝐋𝐔𝐂𝐘 𝐁𝚨𝐒𝐈𝐋𝐋𝚬

The cold air of the rink nips at my skin, but I barely notice. My attention is fixed on the mirror ahead of me, catching my reflection in the glass. I'm wearing a plain long-sleeve shirt and leggings, nothing fancy, just enough to keep warm. But it doesn't feel like enough. I wish I could be anywhere but here. The truth is, I can't stop thinking about the pressure mounting on me—on my body, on my mind, on everything I've worked so hard to achieve. The weight of it all hangs over me, heavy and suffocating, and I can't escape it.

I glance at my reflection again, and I hate what I see.

The soft curve of my stomach, the slight shift in how my legs feel when I push off the ice. I feel sluggish, heavy, like I've gained more than just a few pounds.

Callum's voice is like a shadow in my mind, still there even though he's not here. "You need to stop gaining weight if you want to stay at the top."

I take another step forward, trying to push it out of my head, but his words keep echoing. I hate the way my body feels now, and I can't shake the dread that it's all slipping through my fingers.

I exhale, but it doesn't feel like enough.

The ice beneath me is slick, almost too smooth, but my movements feel anything but graceful. Every time I glide, every time I stretch out, I'm so aware of every inch of myself that feels off. I hate how my leggings hug me in all the wrong places, how they press into the places I'm desperately trying to hide.

It's not just the weight, though. It's everything—the way my body doesn't seem to move like it used to. The tightness in my muscles, the strain in every lift and turn.

I'm supposed to be perfect. That's the problem.

The thought nags at me. The expectation to be flawless, to glide through everything with ease. I'm supposed to look perfect, even when everything else feels so wrong.

I push harder, though I can already feel the burn in my legs. The effort is a distraction, but it only seems to make things worse. Every time I reach for a new move, I feel my body rebel, like it's refusing to do what I want. It's hard to keep my focus when all I want is for everything to stop.

"You good?"

The voice is familiar, low, and so close I don't have to turn to know it's River.

I don't want to answer. I don't want him to know what's going on inside my head. I don't want anyone to see how much I'm struggling, how much I'm losing control.

"I'm fine," I snap, maybe a little sharper than I meant.

He doesn't flinch, doesn't back off. Instead, I hear the soft shuffle of his skates as he gets closer. He's always like this—quiet, persistent in his own way, and annoyingly calm when all I want to do is explode.

River doesn't push, though. He just watches me, standing a little to the side. I can feel his eyes on me, but it doesn't feel as intrusive as it should. It's just there, steady, patient.

I don't want his attention. I don't want him to notice me when I feel like I'm failing. But I know he does. He's always watching, always picking up on the smallest things, even when I'm doing my best to pretend everything is fine.

The silence stretches between us, and I try to ignore the way his gaze makes me feel exposed, like every flaw I see in myself is written in neon for him to read.

I push myself again, my skates carving across the ice, but it's not enough. It never is.

"You sure you're alright?" River asks again, his voice softer this time, like he's not trying to provoke me, just checking in. He's always doing that—checking in when I don't want to be checked on.