Without You

Moonlie is a law student. She moves forward without stopping, as if slowing down might make everything collapse. Since her father's death, she's been carrying far more than her studies: a younger brother to protect, a home to keep standing, and a mother whose violence has become a quiet, constant presence. She works too much, sleeps too little, and often forgets to think about herself. It isn't courage. It's just became normal.

Alec lives in motion. On the ice, everything is clear, fast, controlled. Off it, things blur. The death of his younger sister left a fracture he can't seem to mend. He fills the emptiness however he can: noise, people, excess. He looks like he's moving forward, but he keeps circling the same place.

They meet in a way that almost feels absurd. She's exhausted. He's reckless.

Their stories don't unfold all at once. They surface in fragments: a word held back, a reaction too sharp, a silence that says too much. And when they finally understand what the other is carrying, there's no fixing it, no promises.

Only that fragile recognition: they are no longer entirely alone in holding on.