Chapter 2- Lena

The house smelled the same.

Warm spices, laundry detergent, and the faint hint of my mom’s lavender candle she always lit in the evenings. I stepped inside and felt the familiar creak of the entryway floorboard under my heel. It should’ve been comforting.

Instead, it made my chest tighten.

Dad carried my duffel to my old room while I stood there, staring at the family photos lining the hallway. Me at five in my first skating dress. Me at ten holding a medal. Me at sixteen, smiling like the world was opening up for me.

None of those girls knew what it felt like to fall from that height.

“Sweetheart?” Mom’s voice drifted from the kitchen. “You hungry?”

I wasn’t, but I nodded anyway and followed her. She was stirring a pot on the stove, her hair pulled back, her glasses perched on her head like she’d forgotten they were there. She turned when she heard me and smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

“You look tired,” she said softly.

“I’m fine.” The lie came too easily.

She didn’t push, just handed me a bowl of stew and sat across from me at the table. The silence stretched, thick and heavy. I stared at the steam rising from my bowl, pretending it didn’t make my stomach twist.

“So,” she said gently, “when does your coach get here?”

I swallowed. “Two weeks. We’re still working out the schedule.”

Mom nodded slowly, her fingers tapping the table. “That gives you time to rest. And maybe… ease back into things.”

I stiffened. “I’m easing.”

She gave me a look, the kind that said she knew exactly how much I wasn’t easing. “Lena,” she said, her voice soft but steady, “you’ve been through a lot. You don’t have to jump right back into the deep end. Maybe try some yoga? Or physical therapy? Just to make sure your body’s ready when your coach arrives.”

My throat tightened. “I know.”

“You don’t have to prove anything to anyone,” she added. “Not even to yourself.”

But that was the problem. I did. Because every time I closed my eyes, I felt the fall again, the slip, the impact, the cold swallowing me whole. And every time I opened them, I wondered if I’d ever be the same skater again. Or if that version of me was gone forever.

Mom reached across the table and squeezed my hand. “You’re home now. Let yourself breathe.”

I nodded, blinking hard. “I’ll try.”

After dinner, I went up to my room. Everything was exactly where I left it, the posters on the wall, the stack of old skating magazines, the trophies collecting dust on the shelf. My bedspread was the same too, soft and worn from years of use.

I sat on the edge of the mattress and exhaled shakily. Home was supposed to feel safe. But all I felt was pressure. Pressure to heal. Pressure to train. Pressure to not fall apart again.

I lay back and stared at the ceiling, listening to the quiet hum of the house. My parents’ muffled voices drifted down the hall. A dog barked somewhere outside. A car drove past. Normal sounds. Ordinary sounds.

But my mind kept drifting back to the rink. To the cold. To the moment everything changed. Two weeks. Two weeks until my coach arrived. Two weeks until I had to face the ice again. I wasn’t ready. But time didn’t care. And neither did the ice.