Val's pov
"I didn't want to cry. So why am I on the floor?"
I didn't storm into the skating room.
No. Storming would've meant I still had fire.
This? This was rage chilled into ice. The kind that didn't scream—it simmered.
The kind that broke things quietly.
I didn't bother with warm-ups.
Didn't even tie my laces tight.
Didn't check if anyone else was in the rink—because I knew they weren't.
It was just me.
Just me, and the reflection of a girl who wasn't holding it together anymore.
---
I skated like my lungs were trying to outrun my thoughts.
Like if I moved fast enough, I wouldn't feel anything.
But feelings are faster than blades.
They catch up. Every time.
I jumped. Spun. Landed wrong.
Crack.
It wasn't loud. But pain has a way of echoing in silence.
My knee buckled.
And for the first time in that cursed week—I hit the ice.
Hard.
---
"Shit—ow," I hissed, my breath catching.
The cold of the rink seeped into my tights, but my knee burned. I curled in, chest to thighs, and for the first time in forever, I cried.
Like really cried.
The ugly, gasping kind.
And no one was there.
No one was coming.
---
Eventually, I crawled to the edge. Got up. Limped to the locker room.
Every step felt like someone jamming a knife into my knee and twisting.
I peeled off my dress like it was made of needles.
Washed the blood from the scrape with cold water that stung.
I avoided mirrors.
Didn't want to see what kind of mess I looked like.
---
The nurse at school barely looked at me.
"You should've come here before cleaning it," she muttered, wrapping my knee with professional boredom. "It's not that deep, but it'll sting. Try not to reopen it."
I nodded like a robot. Thanked her in a whisper.
Then went home.
---
Phone. Bag. Limp. Limp. Limp.
I texted my dad, fingers trembling:
VAL:
Need the driver. Rink. Now. Hurt my leg. Please.
Three dots. Then his reply came, colder than the ice I'd just cried on:
DAD:
What were you doing skating at this hour?
I didn't answer.
Ten minutes later, the driver pulled up.
Didn't say a word as I collapsed into the back seat, head against the window, eyes puffed, makeup ruined, tights torn, soul in pieces.
---
The second I stepped into my room, I collapsed face-first on the bed.
Still in the ugly hoodie. Still in pain.
Heart still making that pathetic achey-achey noise in my chest.
Out of habit, I opened Instagram.
Gone.
The post.
Theo's post—gone.
Vanished like it was never there.
My breath hitched. "What?"
I opened his profile.
Nothing. No new posts. Just his usual ones—the ones I used to scroll through when I liked him in secret.
My thumb slipped.
Tap.
Liked.
I froze.
My brain short-circuited.
"No no no—NO!" I yelped, smashing the unlike button so hard I nearly dropped my phone.
It clattered to the ground.
I screamed into my pillow.
"What the fuck did I just do?"
And the worst part?
I wanted him to see it.
Just a little.
---
"Sissy?"
Emma's voice came softly from the door.
I wiped my face. "I'm fine."
"You look like how the Grinch felt when he lost Christmas."
That actually made me choke on a laugh-sob.
She tiptoed closer, her big brown eyes wide, her little pink pajama set covered in tiny unicorns.
"It's okay to cry," she whispered, crawling onto the bed and curling into me.
I wrapped my arms around her tiny body, pressing my face into her hair.
And for the first time since Theo left… I let someone hold me.