Chapter 33 Remember Your Why Luna
Remember Your Why
Luna
The silence started out as a refuge. A buffer between me and the noise of other people’s opinions, other people’s eyes.
The ones I welcomed into my life when I exposed it to the public on social media.
But nobody deserves to be treated like this.
For one perceived wrong. Something deeply personal that doesn’t impact anyone else.
In the last few days, the silence grew teeth. Sharp ones. With nothing but my own thoughts to obsess over, I’ve let it eat away at my confidence. Then, my self-worth. Then whatever scraps of certainty I had left about who I was and what I’ve been doing with my life.
I haven’t left my room since Monday except to shower, refill my water bottle, and heat microwave mac and cheese that I never ate. The bowl’s still sitting on my desk. Half-covered with plastic wrap. Untouched.
Maisie knocked twice yesterday. Once with a smoothie, once with the promise of hot fries and half a joint if I’d come out and sit on the balcony with her.
I didn’t answer either time.
She stopped knocking after that.
I know she’s just giving me space, the way good friends do. But every hour that ticks by makes it harder to cross the gap I’ve built between myself and the people who care about me.
I burrow deeper under my blanket, scroll through my camera roll until my thumb cramps, then toss my phone to the far side of the mattress and flip onto my back.
The ceiling is dull white, a little cracked in one corner from a leaky pipe last fall.
I fixate on that crack, hoping that if I stare at it long enough, maybe it’ll start making sense.
Maybe it wouldn’t feel so awful if I didn’t keep thinking maybe they’re right.
Was I too fake? Am I actually the person Beau took me for when we first met?
A vapid influencer on a never-ending quest for likes and subscribers.
Too polished and curated. Maybe I stopped being a person the moment I became a brand.
My chest tightens. I press the edge of the pillow into my ribs in an attempt to ease the pain.
My roommates are at practice or maybe doing recon for the charity event. They’re still trying to hold things together while I sit here, doing the emotional equivalent of melting into the furniture.
I know I should be with them on the ice. Leading the team. Instead, I’m watching a paused episode of some baking show. The screen is frozen on a close-up of someone piping frosting onto a cake I’ll never eat. There’s something very masochistic about that.
The silence shatters when my phone buzzes once. Then again. Then a third time, louder, group chat level buzz. I don’t want to look. I really don’t want to look.
But I can’t help it.
The messages are from the community event group text, me, Maisie, Beth, Sin, a handful of guys from the men’s team, some of the campus volunteer leads.
The venue is pulling out of our charity scrimmage. We were supposed to hold it in one of the city parks, but apparently, they’ve had a scheduling conflict, and of course we’re getting the boot.
The timeline is too tight to pivot without a miracle.
Beth has the last word.
Beth: Sorry, Luna. I know this was your baby.
A wave of dread washes through me. The weight behind my ribs shifts.
Not a crack, just a shift. This wasn’t about image.
Not really. When I started brainstorming this scrimmage last year, it was about the girls.
All the little ones who brave the subzero temperatures to show up at outdoor rinks in secondhand skates and borrowed gear.
The ones who look up to me and my teammates.
The future of our sport. This was supposed to be real.
Something to inspire the next generation.
The men’s team got brought on board this year as part of the PR plan, but they embraced it.
They jumped in with enthusiasm and valuable contacts to help organize the event. And it had been going so smoothly.
I scroll through the thread again. Read the same four lines three times, just to feel them sink in.
I’ve been swallowed up by the controversy.
I’m not an individual anymore. Not a student trying to scrape together a future for herself and her sister.
I’ve been painted as a liar and a fake. My eyes blur a little, but I don’t cry.
Instead, I set the phone down, lean forward with my elbows on my knees, and press my hands into my face until I see stars behind my eyelids.
I worked so hard to make this matter. To prove I wasn’t just a girl online with decent lighting and a niche. To make it real.
And now I’m being edited out of my own story.
I hear the door creak open before I see her. Celeste’s steps are light, almost tentative, like she isn’t sure if I’m awake or if I’ll bite her head off. But the depression is dragging me down, and I’m too weak to protest.
She says nothing at first. Just crawls onto my bed beside me, curling her long legs underneath her like she belongs there. And she kind of does. Even though she doesn’t live with me, she’s my family. My home.
I glance over. “How’d you get in here?”
“Maisie let me in. You weren’t answering your phone. Lame, sis.”
“I couldn’t.”
She watches me for a beat longer, then reaches over and tugs one end of my blanket over her lap as if it’s hers.
“I got another email today,” she says. “From the ballet company.”
I nod. I knew it was coming, but I haven’t had the energy to celebrate.
“They want me to start right after the summer intensive. Trainee slot, full schedule, some travel. They said I have distinct emotional awareness. I’m quoting.”
“Because you’re dramatic,” I say, voice dry.
Celeste grins. “Exactly. Channeling it for good now.”
I let out a soft breath that’s almost a laugh.
She turns toward me fully, blanket bunched up around her arms like armor. “You know I only get to do this because of you, right?”
“Don’t.”
“I mean it.” Her voice is soft but steady. “Because you pushed. You cared. And you didn’t let me give up on myself when everything sucked. And now you’re trying to give up on yourself, and I’m supposed to just sit here and let it happen?”
I look down at my hands. They’re clenched in the folds of the blanket, white-knuckled. I didn’t even notice.
“I screwed everything up,” I whisper.
“Okay. And?”
I blink.
Celeste raises an eyebrow. “You think I haven’t fallen out of a pirouette and almost taken out an entire ensemble before?
One time I straight-up faceplanted in front of a panel at a competition.
Ugh, the humiliation. But I picked myself up off the ground.
Finished my routine and still got into regionals that year. You know why?”
She looks down at me, eyebrows raised as I stay silent. “Because of you. I’ve always looked up to you and your work ethic.”
“That’s not the same.”
“You’re right. Your disaster is louder. More public.” She nudges my foot. “But that doesn’t mean you get to quit.”
My throat closes.
She watches me for another beat, then softens. “You don’t have to fix everything tonight,” she says. “You don’t even have to move. But you do have to remember why you started.”
I let that sit for a minute. And it does sit. Right in the center of my chest. Like maybe it’s been there the whole time, waiting for me to stop spiraling long enough to hear it.
I nod once.
Celeste leans back, satisfied. “Good. Now, move over. You smell like depression and old popcorn.”
Celeste fell asleep fifteen minutes into the next episode.
She’s curled up beside me, mouth hanging open, drooling on my pillow. Gross. The blanket slipped off her legs, and I reach down to tug it back into place. She doesn’t stir.
I sit there a minute longer, watching her breathe. The quiet settles over me again, but this time, it doesn’t press so hard on my chest. It’s not so sharp.
She’s right. She’s so right, it makes my throat hurt. I’ve been so tangled up in the fallout and the pressure. So lost in what people are saying about me, I forgot why I put myself out there in the first place.
I started showing up online because I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to set an example for the girls of the next generation of hockey. Or any sport. To show them they can do it. Because I sure as hell am doing it, and nobody can take that away from me.
I open my phone.
It’s dead, of course. I plug it into the wall and let it boot up. Notifications immediately light up the screen. There’s a barrage of messages, likes, comments, and alerts. It’s overwhelming, like always. But this time, I don’t scroll past them. I tap open my DMs.
There are thousands. More than I expected. More than I can possibly respond to.
Some are mean. Vile. They usually hit me like a punch in the stomach, but I don’t read those long enough to absorb them. Not tonight.
Because most of them aren’t. Most of the messages are simple. Kind. From people who don’t know me beyond a screen but who cared enough to say something real.
“I miss your posts. Hope you’re okay.”
“Your cat videos make my daughter laugh when she’s at the hospital. Thank you.”
“Don’t let them win.”
“You made me feel less alone. I come from a small town and have to play on the boys’ team because there aren’t enough girls. But seeing you and the Elles every day gives me hope I’ll find my squad too.”
And then there’s a message from a familiar name.
Bridget is one of the kids from the rec rink we visited a few weeks back.
Her mom tagged me in a photo at the time.
She’s wearing mismatched socks, and there’s a huge gap in her grin.
Obviously, from her age, not from a puck to the face.
She’s holding her stick upside down, but she’s proud. You can see it in her smile.
“Hi, Luna. My friend said you’re not famous anymore, but I said you’re still nice and you taught me how to tie my skates so I like you better anyway.”
I blink hard, and the edges of my vision go soft.
This is my reason. Not for the likes or numbers, or even the money. I started influencing for these girls who might not have pursued their hockey dreams if they didn’t see themselves in all the other stars out there. For Bridget, and all the other girls like her.
I drag in a huge breath, then I swipe open a blank note on my phone and start making a list.
Call Coach
Talk to Sin
Research possible alternate venues
Beau?
And I add one more note at the bottom as a reminder to myself and a mantra of sorts.
I’m stronger than this. You can’t take me down.