Chapter 21
The afternoon sun cast long shadows across the campus green, a stark contrast to the cold knot of dread in Harper's stomach.
She sat on a bench, partially hidden by a large oak tree, watching the university's physical therapy center from a distance.
The mood was one of quiet isolation and simmering anxiety, as she saw Liam emerge, not with the careful gait she's used to, but with a confident stride, laughing and jogging in place as he bantered with two of his hockey teammates.
It was different watching him like this, from afar. In the sterile, controlled environment of the therapy room, his progress had been incremental, measured in degrees of rotation and seconds held. Here, in the casual light of day, it was a glaring, undeniable fact. He was moving on.
She curled her fingers into fists, the leather of her crutch handles digging into her palms. It felt like watching a movie of her old life, the one where she moved with grace and ease, only now the starring role belonged to someone else. He was coming closer.
Harper ducked her head, trying to disappear further into the shadow of the oak, but it was no use.
Liam’s laugh, bright and unrestrained, carried across the green.
He spotted her. His face lit up, the easy, golden-boy smile that used to annoy her now twisting a fresh knife in her gut.
He detached himself from his teammates, jogging the last few steps toward her.
Each stride was a painful reminder of what she couldn't do.
“Harper! Hey!” He stopped in front of her, slightly out of breath, but radiating an energy she hadn’t seen in weeks. “Guess what?”
She braced herself, the words already forming a lead weight in her stomach.
“Dr. Reese said I’m officially ahead of schedule. She’s clearing me for light skating drills with the team starting next week.”
He beamed, clearly expecting her to share his excitement. “Can you believe it? I’m practically back.” His tone was optimistic and hopeful, as he talked about being "ahead of schedule," completely oblivious to how his words were landing like tiny daggers.
Harper forced a smile, but it felt brittle, like thin ice about to crack. “That’s…great, Liam.”
“Great? It’s amazing! I can’t wait to get back on the ice, feel the wind in my face again.” He gestured with his hands, his movements fluid and uninhibited. “You have no idea how good it feels to actually move again.”
Each word was a slap, a reminder of the freedom he was regaining while she remained trapped. Harper’s carefully constructed composure began to fray. She focused on a patch of wilting grass at her feet, trying to ground herself, but the jealousy was a rising tide, threatening to pull her under.
“Yeah, I can only imagine,” she said, her voice tight.
Liam seemed oblivious. “I was telling the guys all about the Showcase. They’re actually kind of psyched to see the hockey-meets-ballet thing. I think we might actually pull this off, Harper.”
She looked up at him, really looked at him, and saw the genuine excitement in his eyes. He was so close to getting his old life back. He was so happy. And she…she was still stuck. The contrast was too much. The dam inside her cracked.
Harper witnessed Liam's significant physical progress firsthand.
He's not just walking better; he's joking with his teammates, moving with an ease and freedom that feels like a world away from her own painful, restricted reality.
The visual proof of the widening gap between their recoveries acts as the catalyst for her emotional spiral.
“Liam,” she said, her voice trembling.
“Yeah?” He frowned slightly, finally noticing the shift in her mood. “What’s wrong?”
“Everything.” The word burst out of her like a sob.
He stepped back, his expression shifting from confusion to concern. “Hey, what is it? Talk to me.”
Harper stood up abruptly, the movement sending a jolt of pain through her leg. She gripped her crutches tightly, using them as a physical barrier between herself and him. “Don’t,” she said, her voice shaking. “Just…don’t.”
“Don’t what? Don’t be happy? Don’t tell you good news?” He was starting to sound frustrated, his easy optimism replaced by a bewildered defensiveness.
“Don’t pretend like everything’s okay when it’s not!” she snapped.
Liam recoiled, his face etched with hurt. “I’m not pretending, Harper. I’m just…excited. And I thought you’d be happy for me.”
“Happy for you?” She laughed, a short, bitter sound.
“Why would I be happy for you, Liam? You’re getting everything you want.
You’re back on the ice, you’re impressing your coach, you’re probably going to get that scholarship.
Meanwhile, I’m still hobbling around on crutches, watching my entire future disappear down the drain .
But I guess this is great for you, right?
Your little 'project' is all better! You can check the box, tell your friends you 'fixed' the broken ballerina, and go right back to your perfect life! "
"Project?" Liam's face went pale, his frustration instantly replaced by hurt and confusion. "What are you talking about?"
"I heard you, Liam! With your team!" Harper's voice was shaking with a new fury, the memory fresh and raw. "'It's a project.' Was I ever anything more than that to you? Or was I just something to fix to make you feel better about your own shoulder?"
“That’s not fair,” he said, his voice low, now reeling from the combined accusations. “I’m not the one who caused your accident. And I’m not the enemy here.”
“No, you’re not the enemy,” she conceded, her anger laced with a raw, self-deprecating honesty. “You’re just…a reminder. A constant, painful reminder of everything I’ve lost.”
Liam’s confusion deepened. He opened his mouth to speak, but Harper cut him off.
“I can’t do this, Liam.” Her voice was barely a whisper, thick with unshed tears. “I can’t watch you fly while I’m still learning to stand. I can’t be your cheerleader from the sidelines of my own life.”
The goal was not to find a solution, but to articulate her despair. The tone is raw, accusatory, and deeply vulnerable, effectively ending the conversation before he can truly respond.
Liam stared at her, his face a mask of disbelief. “What are you saying?”
“I’m saying…I need space. I need to focus on myself, on my own recovery. I can’t…I can’t be around you right now.”
Harper's simmering grief over her own stagnation boils over into sharp jealousy. She makes the desperate, self-protective decision to push Liam away, believing that the pain of his absence will be less than the constant, agonizing reminder of what she's lost and what he's regaining.
“But…the Showcase,” he stammered. “We’re supposed to be working on the Showcase together. You’re the artistic director!”
“I’ll figure something out,” she said, her voice flat. “I’ll find someone else. Or maybe Dr. Reese can handle it. I don’t know. Just…not me.”
Liam’s optimistic pride in his recovery is shattered by Harper's reaction. He is blindsided and utterly confused, unable to comprehend how his progress could be a source of pain for her. His attempt to share his joy is met with rejection, leaving him feeling hurt and helpless.
He reached out a hand, as if to touch her, but she flinched away.
“Harper, please,” he said, his voice pleading. “Don’t do this. Don’t shut me out.”
She looked at him, really looked at him, and saw the pain in his eyes, the confusion, the hurt. And for a fleeting moment, she regretted her words, regretted the wall she was building between them.
But the regret was quickly overshadowed by the overwhelming need to protect herself, to shield her fragile heart from the constant ache of comparison.
“I’m sorry, Liam,” she said, her voice cold and final. “But I have to.”
And with that, she turned and limped away, leaving him standing alone on the campus green, his face a study in stunned disbelief. Harper didn’t look back.
Each step was agony, not just physically but emotionally. She could feel his eyes on her back, burning a hole through her. She wanted to run, to escape the weight of his gaze, but her body wouldn’t cooperate.
Finally, she reached the sidewalk and turned toward her dorm, her pace quickening slightly. She could still feel him, a presence lingering behind her, but she refused to acknowledge it. She had to do this. She had to protect herself. Even if it meant hurting him.
The afternoon sun seemed to mock her, casting long, accusing shadows in her path. Each shadow was a reminder of her own brokenness, her own limitations.
She reached the dorm building and pushed through the heavy glass doors, the cool, sterile air a welcome relief against her flushed skin. She hurried down the hallway, her crutches echoing against the linoleum floor, each echo a painful reminder of her altered reality.
Finally, she reached her door. She fumbled with her keys, her hands shaking so badly she could barely get the key into the lock. The door swung open, revealing the familiar, sterile confines of her dorm room. It was a small, impersonal space, but it was hers. Her sanctuary. Her prison.
She stepped inside and slammed the door shut behind her, the sound echoing through the small room. She leaned against the door, her breath coming in ragged gasps, her heart pounding in her chest.
She was safe. For now.
Harper locked herself in her dorm room, the silence amplifying the echo of her harsh words.
The immediate feeling isn't relief, but a profound and hollow loneliness.
She leaned her head against the cold wood of the door, having successfully built a wall to protect her heart, only to find herself trapped alone inside.
The chapter ends on the image of her solitary figure, the distance she demanded now a tangible, suffocating presence.
The silence was deafening. It pressed in on her, suffocating her, amplifying the echo of her harsh words. She hadn’t meant to be so cruel, so unforgiving. But the words had just tumbled out of her, a torrent of pain and resentment she couldn’t control.
Now, she was left with the aftermath. A hollow, aching emptiness that stretched out before her like a vast, desolate landscape.
She slid down the door until she was sitting on the floor, her knees drawn up to her chest, her head resting against the cold wood. The immediate feeling wasn’t relief. It wasn’t even anger. It was just a profound and hollow loneliness.
She had done it. She had successfully pushed him away. She had built a wall to protect her heart, a wall so high and so strong that no one could ever get through.
But now, she was trapped on the inside. Alone.
Tears streamed down her face, silent and unbidden. She didn’t even bother to wipe them away. She was alone, and she had no one to blame but herself.
The setting sun cast long shadows across the room, painting the walls with hues of orange and purple. The shadows danced and flickered, mocking her with their fluid, unrestrained movement.
She closed her eyes, trying to block out the images, the sounds, the memories. But they were all there, swirling around her, taunting her with what she had lost.
The silence stretched on, unbroken except for the occasional sob that wracked her body. She was alone. And she was trapped.
The distance she had demanded was now a tangible, suffocating presence, a vast chasm that separated her from the rest of the world. And in that moment, she realized that she had made a terrible mistake.
But it was too late. The wall was built. The door was locked. And she was alone inside.