Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Promises to the Dead
Grief is supposed to be loud. People cry. Scream. Punch walls. Drink too much. Cling to others. Mine arrives like snowfall. Quiet. Inevitable. Layering itself over everything until the world looks different, and no one else notices.
I don’t go to the funeral. I don't have the means, and if I did, his family wouldn’t want me there. And if I saw the closed casket, I’d want to rip it open just to prove he didn’t vanish the way the text made it sound.
Instead, I go to the rink. Because the ice is the only place where pain doesn’t ask for permission. I skate until my legs give out. I skate until my body screams louder than my mind. I skate until something inside me becomes sharp instead of shattered.
Faulker tries to help. Not directly. He’s not stupid. He doesn’t ask how I’m feeling. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t offer pity.
Instead, he shows up to every practice with that irritated German energy and mutters things like: “If you are going to be in emotional denial, at least pass cleanly.” And: “Your form is suffering. I will not allow grief to ruin my line partner’s mechanics.”
It works. Because it doesn’t require me to talk.
Over time, a new version of myself begins to form. A version built from all the places I refuse to let break.
I stop waiting for someone to challenge me. I start challenging myself. Harder drills. Earlier practices. Later nights. More weights. More speed. More pain.
You cannot outrun grief. But you can bury it under muscle. You cannot erase a ghost. But you can out-skate the memories long enough to breathe.
I tell myself every morning: Forward. Always forward.
Because if I stop? If I look back for even one second? The image of Mikhail’s face that last day— the bruise on his lip, the way he said thank you without saying it the way he said goodbye without asking me to understand the way he looked at me like he hoped I’d remember him—
I’ll fall apart. And I do not fall apart. Not ever again.
I build rules. Not written. Not spoken. Just carved into the inside of my skull.
Rule One: No attachments. People leave. People die. People get taken. If you don’t let anyone in, there’s nothing to lose.
Rule Two: No secrets you owe anyone. Mikhail told me his truth. I’ll never regret knowing it. But I will not be the person who holds someone else’s life inside my hands again. Too much weight. Too much risk.
Rule Three: No being someone’s hidden rebellion. I learned that one from the girls. People want what they’re not allowed to have. But they don’t want the consequences. I am done being anyone’s shadow desire.
Rule Four: Be undeniable. Hit harder. Skate faster. Speak less. Work more. Control the narrative so the world cannot rewrite you.
Faulker once joked that I am building myself into a weapon. He didn’t realize I already was one.