Chapter 10
Maya
F ive years is long enough to build a life that feels complete on the surface and still carries a quiet seam beneath it, something almost invisible unless you press against it just right, and I suppose that is why I don’t think about him most days, at least not consciously, not in a way that interrupts the rhythm I’ve created here.
My life in Colorado has a way of demanding my attention in the present, in the way the air sharpens your lungs in the morning and the mountains refuse to be ignored when the light hits them just before sunset.
I learned how to belong here one small decision at a time, through early mornings at Calder Café and Market, through friendships that formed slowly and then all at once, through long winters that taught me patience and resilience in equal measure.
Then, perhaps most unexpectedly, through learning how to move across the snow, to work with the snow, instead of away from it.
Yes, by learning how to cross country ski.
The first efforts were later replaced by a steadier pace, something that felt less like adaptation and more like ownership.
When I send pictures of me cross country skiing to my parents in San Diego, they are surprised, and my cousins in Laguna, in the Philippines, are even more astonished, most of them having yet to touch snow.
They know me from summers I used to spend with them growing up, and from our never ending group chats.
There are moments, though, when the past threads its way back in without warning, not as a memory that demands to be re-lived but as a presence that refuses to be entirely erased.
Even now, standing at the edge of a trail with my friends laughing behind me and the sky stretching clear and endless above us, I feel that faint pull, the awareness that the life I have now grew out of something unfinished, something I chose not to chase after when it disappeared because chasing would have required answers I wasn’t ready to hear.
“Come on, Maya, you’re the one who insisted we take this more challenging route,” Claire calls out, her voice bright with the kind of energy that only comes from a day off work and freshly fallen snow on the cross country trail.
I turn slightly, lifting my poles in mock surrender as I push forward onto the trail, letting the familiar rhythm settle into my body, the glide and push that has become second nature over the last five years.
“I said it had the best views,” I reply, my breath steady as I move ahead, the landscape opening up in front of us in a way that still manages to take me by surprise, even after all this time. “I didn’t promise it would be easy.”
“That’s because you’re a traitor,” she laughs, but there’s no real complaint in it, just the shared understanding that this is part of why we come out here, for the challenge as much as for the quiet.
I let the conversation fade behind me as I settle into a pace that feels right, my skis cutting smooth lines through the snow, my body working in a way that feels clean and grounded, and for a while, everything narrows to that movement, to the steady cadence that has replaced the restlessness I used to carry with me when I first arrived in Silver Pine, unsure of where I fit, unsure of what I was building.
I’m not unsure anymore.
That realization comes easily now, without the hesitation it once held, and it settles into me with a quiet certainty that I’ve earned, not just through time but through choice, through the decision to stay when leaving would have been easier, through the willingness to let something go when holding on would have kept me stuck.
I don’t think about the bar anymore, not in detail, not in a way that brings back the sharp edges of that night, but I remember the feeling, the shift, the moment something broke open and then shut down just as quickly, and I remember the silence that followed, the absence that stretched long enough to become its own answer.
He never came back.
The thought is less painful now than it once was, less immediate, but it hasn’t disappeared entirely, and I suppose it never will, not completely, because some things don’t resolve themselves neatly no matter how much time passes.
They settle instead, becoming part of the landscape you move through, something you navigate without always acknowledging.
I adjust my grip on my poles, leaning into a slight incline as the trail curves upward, the snow a little softer here, requiring more effort, more focus, and I welcome the distraction, the physical demand that pulls me fully into the moment.
Behind me, I can hear the others catching up, their voices carrying easily in the open air, and I slow slightly to let them close the distance, because this isn’t a race, not really, even if we pretend it is.
“You’ve gotten way too good at this,” Nate says as he draws alongside me, his tone half impressed, half accusing, and I smile, shaking my head as I ease my pace further.
“I had five years to practice,” I reply, and the number feels strange when I say it out loud, heavier than it looks on paper, more significant than I usually let myself consider.
“Five years and you still drag us up the hardest trails,” Claire adds, but she’s smiling too, her cheeks flushed from the cold and the exertion, and I shrug lightly, because there’s truth in that, but there’s also something else, something I don’t articulate, about how pushing myself became a way to prove that I could handle more than I thought I could.
We reach a small clearing where the trees thin out, the view opening up to a stretch of untouched snow that slopes gently downward, and I pause for a moment, taking it in, because no matter how many times I see something like this, it never stops being enough.
“Worth it,” I say quietly, and they nod, the conversation dropping off as we all stand there, letting the silence settle, letting the landscape speak in a way that words don’t need to interrupt.
The wind shifts slightly, carrying a colder edge with it, and I glance up, noticing the subtle change in the sky, the way the light has dulled just enough to suggest something moving in, something building beyond the horizon.
“Storm’s coming in faster than they said,” Nate murmurs, following my gaze, and I nod, already recalibrating, already thinking through the route back, the time it will take, the variables that can shift quickly out here if you’re not paying attention.
“We should head back,” I say, pushing off again, my tone steady, because there’s no need to rush yet, but there’s no reason to linger either.
We turn, retracing part of our path, the descent easier but requiring its own kind of control, the snow slightly uneven in places, the terrain more deceptive than it looks.
I keep my focus forward, my movements precise, my body responding automatically to the subtle changes beneath my skis, and for a while, everything holds, everything stays within the boundaries I expect.
Until it doesn’t.
It happens quickly, too quickly to adjust fully, a patch of softer snow giving way under one ski while the other catches unexpectedly, the imbalance immediate and sharp, and I shift my weight to compensate, but the angle is wrong, the momentum already carrying me forward in a way that doesn’t allow for correction.
The fall isn’t dramatic, not in the way people imagine, but it’s sudden and jarring, the impact sending a shock through my side that steals my breath for a second before I can react, before I can process exactly what just happened. I feel pain as I catch my breath again.
“Maya!” Claire’s voice cuts through the moment, closer now, urgent, and I push myself up slightly, testing, assessing, because instinct takes over before anything else.
“I’m okay,” I manage, though the words come out tighter than I intend, and as I shift again, a sharper pain flares along my ankle, enough to make me pause, enough to make me reconsider the automatic reassurance I just gave Claire.
“Don’t move yet,” Nate says, kneeling beside me, his expression focused now, the easy humor gone, replaced by something more serious, and I nod, letting myself settle back slightly, letting the initial adrenaline fade enough to give me a clearer sense of what’s going on.
It’s not severe, not catastrophic, but it’s enough, enough to complicate things, enough to make the trek back less straightforward than it was a few minutes ago.
“I think I twisted it,” I say after a moment, flexing carefully, testing the range, the stability, and while it holds, the discomfort is undeniable, a steady ache that suggests pushing too hard would be a mistake.
The wind picks up again, stronger this time, carrying a hint of snow with it, and the shift in the weather becomes more obvious, more immediate, the sky darkening in a way that confirms what we already suspected.
“We don’t have time to mess around,” Claire says, glancing back toward the trail, her concern evident now. “We need to get you somewhere you can sit it out if this gets worse.”
“There’s a cabin not too far from here,” Nate adds, his tone thoughtful as he scans the landscape. “Old place, but it should be stocked. We passed it on the way in.”
I follow his gaze, my mind catching on the word cabin in a way that feels oddly specific, though I don’t immediately question it, because practicality takes precedence in moments like this, and right now, the practical choice is clear.
“Okay,” I agree, pushing myself up more carefully this time, accepting the support when Nate offers it, because pride doesn’t serve me here, not when the situation is already shifting beyond ideal conditions.
We move more slowly now, adjusting our pace to accommodate the injury, the weather pressing in around us in a way that adds urgency without tipping into panic, and I focus on each step, each movement, keeping my weight balanced, my breathing steady.
The cabin comes into view soon, tucked between a cluster of trees, its structure solid but unassuming, the kind of place you might pass without a second thought if you weren’t looking for it.
Relief flickers briefly, practical and immediate, and we close the distance quickly, the first few flakes of snow beginning to fall as we reach the door.
“Looks like it’s occupied,” Claire says, nodding toward the faint tracks leading up to it, and something in my chest shifts at that, something I don’t immediately identify, because it doesn’t make sense yet, not fully.
Nate knocks, firm and steady, and we wait, the wind picking up behind us, the storm no longer a distant possibility but something actively arriving.
There’s a pause, a moment where everything seems to hold, and then the door opens.
And for a second, the world narrows in a way that feels eerily familiar, not because of danger this time, but because of recognition, because of the sudden, undeniable awareness that the past I thought I had learned to carry quietly has just stepped directly into my present.
He looks different.
That’s the first thing that registers, not in a superficial way but in something deeper, something contained, the edges of him sharper, more controlled, his presence quieter in a way that feels intentional rather than absent.
His gaze lands on the group first, assessing, automatic, and then it shifts to me, and whatever he expected to see out here, it wasn’t this.
It wasn’t me.
For a moment, neither of us moves, the space between us filled with everything that hasn’t been said in five years, everything that was left unresolved, and I feel the weight of it settle, not crushing, not overwhelming, but undeniable.
“Maya,” he says finally, my name leaving his mouth with a steadiness that doesn’t quite hide the undercurrent beneath it, and I realize, distantly, that this is the first time I’ve heard his voice since the night he walked away after the bar fight.
The storm presses closer, the wind rising behind us, but it feels distant compared to this, compared to the reality of standing here, on his doorstep, in a place I didn’t know was his until this exact moment.
“I guess you still know how to disappear,” I say, and the words come out softer than they might have once, less accusation, more observation, because time has shifted something in me, even if it hasn’t erased what came before.
His expression changes slightly, something flickering there before it settles again, controlled, measured, and he steps back, opening the door wider.
“You should come inside,” he replies, his tone even, but there’s something in it, something that suggests this moment is just the beginning of something neither of us can avoid anymore.
And as I cross the threshold, the warmth of the cabin closing around me, I understand with a clarity that settles deep that whatever I built over the last five years, whatever distance I created, it hasn’t erased this.
It never did.