JIMIN POV:

"You guys go... I'll just be a minute." Yoongi hyung waves the other two off, watches the two of them leave the room, door clicking shut quietly behind them. An impregnable pause lingers, sinks uncomfortably into the space of the room. Feeling raw and exposed, feel hyung's eyes on me, wondering just how badly he thinks of me now. Throat tightening at the thought of the three of them knowing, of them knowing the truth of what I'd done and the knowledge that I was cruel and hurtful and twisted.

The uneven quiet exhale turns my head to the side, tired, aching eyes appraising Yoongi hyung, surprised to find the hesitance in them. The dithering pause as if he debates with himself whether to say or whether to stay quiet. Words battling to slip out, dangling on the tip of his tongue.

"You can say it hyung. Whatever's bothering you... whatever you think of me. You can say it."

Though the thought that the three of them hate me, despise me for what I've done makes my heart hammer against my chest with crippling panic.

Don't hate me. Please don't hate me.

"I know... a lot of the things you said to (Y/N) were a lot of the things your Coach has told you. I know... I know it's hard to split right from wrong or question things when it's someone who holds such a powerful position in your life, in your career... but you realise it don't you Jimin-ah? That just because your Coach said it never made it okay for you to say it?"

I nod, chest constricting painfully tight. The air in my lungs rattles.

"I just- I've done so much for my career... I can't afford to lose it all now."

"I get that... I really get that." Hyung's voice is level, unfailingly patient. But there's something darker and heavier swimming in his eyes, something that's just more.

"But... you realise so has (Y/N)...she's done a lot for her career too... she's put everything on the line for her career so for you to... throw it in her face... you undermined her as a woman, as an athlete... as someone who knows just how much you have to sacrifice for your sport, for your talent."

But there's a personal tone he speaks with. Affected and understanding and eyes full of a deeper empathy for her than I understand. As if he understands exactly how she feels, as if Yoongi hyung sees a likeness of himself in her, as if... as if he knows her.

"And with everything she's gone through-"

"How'd you know?"

How do you know the words that ring in my ears constantly? A haunting reminder of just how deeply I've messed up, just how much I've done wrong by.

Jungkook's words stuck in an endless loop.

"But if I ever find out (Y/N)'s spending extra hours putting herself at risk cos an asshole like you made her feel unworthy, that she almost lost her chance at her career... after coming back from rehab"

She almost lost her chance at her career...after coming back from rehab...rehab...rehab...rehab

"What?"

"How'd you know what she's gone through? (Y/N)."

His expression turns guarded, protective.

His voice is heavier, weighed down. An empathy for her pooled heavily in his eyes.

"I saw (Y/N). At the medic-bay. I saw her face after that injury... but you didn't know did you? You didn't know she had an old ankle injury? That she's still in physio for it? Gets it checked up."

Hyung saw her. Saw her injured, saw her, saw her- old ankle injury?

"What does that mean?" voice strained.

"The fall injured her face... she's healing up okay there I think. But she's got an old injury. It flares up from time to time."

Just as hyung's shoulder does.

She's been skating this entire time... on an old injury? Healed... but there? Present?

A groaned complaint, hands massaging her calf, trailing down to slowly rotate one ankle then the other, stretching out across her back. My hand replacing hers. Gripping her calf, lips trailing upwards. Fingers squeezing her calf, feel her body go boneless, sink against her sheets. A lazy quirk to her mouth.

"Long day at practice? Worn out already?" grinning at the lidded look she gives me, brows rising as her body sprawls against her sheets. Leg nudging at me.

"If hockey players work hard...we work harder. I don't think I can move out of bed."

"Lazy lazy... sounds like you're making excuses."

Hands drifting up, body hovering between hers, over hers, reading the exhaustion in her limbs, in the way her lashes flutter, in the way her exhales are light, relieved.

The way her eyes roll, hand curling into my shirt to tug me down, body hovering centimeters apart, eyes dropping to her lips.

Lazy smile curling deep.

"Trust me Park... it takes a lot to get me out of shape. Surely you know that by now... so if I say I'm done... trust me... I'm not moving a muscle." her voice is sluggish, a tiredness in her breaths.

"I could do all the work." voice teasing.

"In your dreams Park. Try again in 2-3 business days."

"You drive a hard bargain doll."

"Take it or leave it." voice heavy and drowsy, words drawn out.

I'd always thought it might've been overworking that day or an exhausting week.

Hadn't realised it'd been a lingering remnant of an old injury, an old strain.

"I hadn't... I hadn't realised she was injured."

Yoongi hyung shifts slightly, expression uneasy and uncomfortable.

Hedging carefully.

"Listen Jimin-ah... you know I've... struggled... with my shoulder. And it gets fucked up real bad some days... but what I saw with (Y/N)... what I saw in her... I know that feeling. Of constantly being paranoid and scared that an old injury might ruin it all for you again. I know how careful you have to play it sometimes... I think that day she got injured... I think... I think she was afraid of losing it all, of losing everything all over again. It cripples you."

And for hyung to come out and say it... for hyung to be the one to broach the matter when it's such a sensitive issue, when it's something he actively dislikes talking about. The fact that he decides to... the fact that he chooses to bring up his injury as a way for me to understand the extent of (Y/N)'s... the feelings of guilt and shame and remorse that seeps through me makes me feel pathetic. Makes everything I've done a thousand times worse.

Because... because I didn't just cause her to be physically injured... I didn't just be the reason she got hurt on the rink... I-

Yoongi hyung's eyes silently condemn it. Speak it.

I almost became the reason her career got ruined. I almost became the reason she would've lost everything.

"But if I ever find out (Y/N)'s spending extra hours putting herself at risk cos an asshole like you made her feel unworthy, that she almost lost her chance at her career... after coming back from rehab"

And Jungkook... that vengeful hatred in his eyes, the venom and disdain and hot-wrath had all been for her. For knowing what she almost lost.

After coming back from rehab.

And I had almost sent her back.

I had almost ruined... everything. Everything that mattered.

"You didn't just undermine her as a woman but also as an athlete."

You didn't just mess with her mind, with her heart, you messed with her life. With her sport. With her career.

And the bile that rises up my throat, that lurches up, grips me by my throat, the pressure unforgivably tight. A noose that tightens around my neck. Chokes out every worthless word and sentiment.

At the extent of what I've done.

At the lengths I went to.

To make me feel better.

To prioritise myself, my sport, I almost tore her own away.

[......]

My mind is blank. Black and dreamless. Just... empty. A stretching darkness that comes to settle on every sense, that weighs it down, traps it in this state. Sleep is dreamless. But it's filled with a hateful snarl.

"If I ever find out (Y/N)'s spending extra hours putting herself at risk cos an asshole like you made her feel unworthy, that she almost lost her chance at her career... after coming back from rehab"

And as that voice sinks into the darkness, it melds with it. The same darkness becomes oppressive, suffocating. Closes in from every angle, snarled threat choking the air from my lungs, hand fisted at my shirt, weight bearing down on my ribs and black wrath-consumed eyes burning holes into me.

"An asshole like you made her feel unworthy...almost lost her chance at her career....after coming back from rehab."

Again and again the words circle through my mind, wind that darkness tighter and tighter, a noose that keeps closing around my throat at the pressure, the unyielding avenging burn of eyes that promise to return and exact her hurt on her behalf.

"She was injured. She has an old ankle injury... you know old injuries have a way of flaring up. You're always paranoid." The voice morphs, blends from sharp hatred to low heavy disappointment, to crippling empathy, voice laden with understanding. Glowering eyes flickering into ones that look at me with revulsion, with disgust.

Hyung no- I never meant to. But the plea remains stuck in my throat, a shard of glass lodged there. Tearing up the tissue, choking around the metallic tang and then.

Dreamless.

Black and empty once again.

But the weight of the words linger, shackles against my limbs that drag me down, down, down further into that feeling of nothingness.

Nothing.

You're nothing. Worth nothing.

[......]

Rehab. (Y/N) had been in rehab. She'd been in rehab for an injury that had made her sit out a season-

"Not all of us can afford to sit out a season and have our Coaches baby us... hold your hands through the next season."

No. No. No, no, no, no, no, no... no.

I'd remember her being injured, I'd remember if she was out for the season because she'd gotten hurt. I'd remember something like that.

But I remember not seeing her on the ice, I remember seeing little of Jungkook on the ice too. I remember seeing her sit out practices and I remember seeing her rarer and fewer the further the season got. I remember her, scarcely on the rink and whenever she was... I remember her sitting in the stands.

And it'd been because she was injured. Because her injury meant she couldn't compete for the season.

I remember...

My stomach lurches.

I remember not hearing of her winning. Of a lack of trophies and victories that she was always so eager and willing to flaunt in front of me. Of wins that I always said were so easily coming for them.

"What's wrong princess? Not practicing today? But it'd be so helpful in perfecting those twirls of yours..."

"Fuck off Park."

"Princess got a bite to her today? What's wrong? Need help tying your laces? Where's that shadow of yours?"

"I said fuck off Park." voice tighter with rage, eyes flashing with warning.

But all it serves to do is drag me forward, body turning to face her.

Front-row seat. In the audience.

"Or did you get benched? Did your Coaches finally find someone of calibre? Of talent?"

"Yet you compete against me for more wins... wouldn't call myself talentless if you have such a hard time keeping up." voice prickly, words sharp and abrasive. Lips parted into something akin to a snarl. Teeth bared, hackles raised.

Revelling in the response my words provoke.

But... she hadn't been injured. She couldn't have been injured and in front of me the entire time and I hadn't noticed. I hadn't been that blind, that oblivious had I?

Because our lives had always, to some extent, for one reason or another, for insult or taunt had circled in close orbits near one another. Because we shared the ice, we fought tooth and nail for the ice... surely... surely despite it all, something like an injury... I would've noticed right?

"Sitting down again?" tongue clicking with false sympathy and pity, eyes skimming over her. Bundled up and sitting in the front row again. Gaze fixed firmly ahead. Ignoring my presence.

"If you get this comfy in the stands then maybe you can stay there and cheer me on. Might give you a break from trying to compete against me... that way you can see what real effort looks like huh?"

"Just go Park. No one's got time for your shit." voice sighing and despairing. Or had it been tired and exhausted?

"No? You look like you've got all the time in the world. Not getting up?"

"I'm fine where I am. Don't you have some sort of dick measuring contest to get to? I hear that's what you and the hockey players like doing... seeing which one is the least piss-poor excuse of a guy." words hard, brittle.

My lips thin, voice sneering.

"Unlike the sissy skaters you have on your team. What sort of guy would sign up to prance around and let it be called a sport- where is he? Your captain?" voice calling, jeering as it steps forward onto the ice, voice cutting into our conversation. Her eyes flash and her head jerks to the voice.

It's the first time in a long time I see something carnal and vicious and angry and consuming on her face. Snaps her out of her disdain and indifference.

Lips twisting sharp. Eyes pinning the voice down.

"Shut your fucking mouth." body rising up off the seats, a rush of steps, a hand clamping at her shoulder and forcing her to stay seated, eyes glowering and grip tight.

"Leave it (Y/N)."

"No... you want to tell me again the fuck you just said?" voice full of hatred, venom. Body trying to rise up. Hand gripping her shoulder tighter.

"(Y/N). Leave it."

My steps move back.

A prickling unease at the comment made.

Eyes fixed on the sight of tension in both their postures, in the unwavering grip he has on her, clamping on her shoulder. Forcing her to stay seated.

No.

No...no it couldn't have been. Yet the memory lingers in front of my eyes, burns itself into my consciousness, a voice in my head whispering that that's exactly what it had been.

I hadn't seen her standing, hadn't seen her walking around the rink without Jungkook, nor had I seen her on the rink between practices.

She fought tooth and nail for every prime slot for solo-practice.

That season... she'd given it up.

Thinking back... it's all I can see. As if my memories line up and spell it out for me. As if in hindsight questioning whether I really had been blind to anything and anyone but my own practices, my own triumphs, my own self.

The nausea that grips me by the throat is unyielding.

That all those practices I'd seen her sit out, staring out at the ice unfocused and zoning out... all those times I'd stopped to rub it in her face, to taunt or gloat... all those times and she'd had to stay sitting there, taking it.

I'd been so fucking blind.

So blissfully ignorant to everything but myself.

And all this time...

The uncomfortable feeling that settles in my chest is akin to shame. A heavy feeling that makes my lungs constrict around nothing, that winds a banding pressure around my chest, that makes my heart plummet, dropping out from under everything.

How could you be so fucking ignorant? How could you taunt her at every turn, making fun of her, not knowing she couldn't retaliate, couldn't get up... couldn't skate?

[......]

I've seen every angle of (Y/N). I've come to know every expression ranging from anger to apathy, from fury to disdain, from fire to cold indifference. I've known every tone her voice makes from sarcastic to biting to downright insulting. I've known (Y/N) and the ranges of emotions and expressions she makes around me, because of me and yet this... this is different. This is an expression, a look on her face that I don't quite know what to make of. That makes me feel uncomfortable to look at. That makes me wonder whether to approach or whether to steer away.

Some part of me, a stupid part of me, decides that approaching is better. That something... anything is better than the expression she wears now. Something that makes my skin rankle and itch with how discomforting it is to look at, an uneasiness when I see her.

A brittleness to her expression, to every feature, as if it's moments from snapping. Voice rile with aggression and harshness. Anger and aggravation bleeding into her eyes, into her voice, snapping at me, at the question posed simply at her.

"You off the ice still? Cmon princess... why don't you get up?" questioning. Cautious. Voice light.

"Just fuck off Park and don't bother your mind with things it can't understand. Either go practice or get out of my face." The look on her face morphs from empty indifference to blazing tension.

"Relax ice princess... if you want to take a seat... stay. Watch the ice." trying to ease a neutrality between us, unsure as to how to approach the sharpness in her voice. Voice lilting. Trying to calm her.

Having the entirely opposite effect.

Step backtracking unconsciously when she lurches up, hands gripping the seat in front of her, balance swaying briefly, knuckles whitening. Eyes dark. Swallowed whole by something I can't read off her. It's the first time I wonder whether riling a response... just to have her not looking so bleak... for the first time I wonder what's elicited the reaction.

Watch her face blanch, anger brimming in her eyes, so visceral and strong. Breath teetering as her body jerks forward with a twisted snarling bitterness and-

"(Y/N)! Either sit down or go home. I told you... you're allowed to review practice and that's it." Orders firm, unwavering. Calling out towards her. I catch her Coach's stare; pointed and firm until she'd slumped down, breathing sharp and glare burning holes into my side.

"Maybe... take it easy then." words swallowing down the churning unease, the persisting thought that something about her is off.

"Y'know what Park? Take advantage of me being off the ice... we both know you could do with the head start." but her voice lacks whatever makes that fire... (Y/N).

The next time my eyes had drifted to look for her, she hadn't been there.

Hadn't been on the ice.

Hadn't been on the stands.

Hadn't been watching, legs stretched out across the seats.

She'd just been...gone.

Gone from the rink.

And gone from the chance encounters across campus. Just... gone.

It was a quieter season.

Wins I hadn't been able to taunt, wins that'd felt slightly unsatisfactory.

As if she'd decided to take time off.

The season beneath her, the competitions beneath her. Pampered princess through and through.

And then she'd been back. Without a single echo of what I had seen her as.

And the competitiveness that'd been lacklustre...missing the fire, the push, the clash... had returned. Had returned tenfold.

[......]

"Fuck." Frustration bleeds into my voice, hockey stick hitting against ice, missing the puck by a wide shot. Skating after it but my focus is scattered. And I don't need Coach's voice ringing in my ears to remind me of it. Don't need his presence at the edge of the rink to hear it in my ears as I fumble over a basic skating drill.

Do better Park, where's your head at?

Skates slower as I move towards the puck, hockey stick weaving it back towards the basic drill course I'd been following.

If you can't get your head on straight what are you even doing on the ice?

In, out, in, out, in, out. Skating in a weaving pattern from one end of the rink to the other. Aiming for the goal when I reach it but the puck clangs against the goal's edge.

Fail.

Skating harder and faster to chase after the puck, the easy loss stings, cuts deep. I shouldn't be screwing up something so simple.

And yet... yet I can't even manage to score a goal through an empty net where I have a clean straight line to shoot through.

Skating fast towards the puck, skates pushing speed, pushing myself further and further, body careening towards the rink's edge when my skates falter. Stumble over themselves as I dig my skates in, blades digging in to scrape to a stop. Ice torn up around my blades.

Eyes flashing with the phantom presence of blood still pooled on the ice.

Red against white.

Skates digging in, breaths sharp as my body stills, eyes searching the ice, searching it for the blood that's been cleaned off it, swept away and ice reset. Wiping away any trace of the collision. Of the injury... of the injury (Y/N) had gotten on this ice... on this ice and because of me. Of everything I'd almost cost her.

There's a familiar lurch, a twist of my stomach and that feeling of falling, of something sinking heavy into the depths of my stomach, ice unsteady under my blades the longer as I stare at that patch of ice.

It's gone now. The proof of the collision's gone.

But it had happened.

And it had happened because of me.

A voice, snarling and furious and burning with rage and a protective fury, eyes dark and unseeing anything but (Y/N). The crushing pressure at my chest, the ground falling away underneath me and the undeniable accusation hard and digging its claws deeper and deeper into me, taking root of something inside my chest and twisting it harsh and mercilessly.

The guilt presses in on me, swarming from every side, presses inwards until it buries itself under my skin, roots itself into my flesh and bones, until every heartbeat echoes with the harsh accusation, the confronting truth that I did it, I was the reason (Y/N) got hurt.

And Jungkook had been right.

Every word he'd said had been right.

"Couldn't live with your guilt, your shame that you weren't good enough as the team's precious star centre. Couldn't escape your toxic, little masculinity that you're not worth it."

The longer I stare at the ice, the longer I see it. See the pool of blood.

And as if in front of my eyes I watch, stuck there, reaching out for a phantom that's out of reach for the sight of (Y/N) losing control of her skates, of her body twisting and trying to rear back from colliding but her body reacts too slow to the realisation. And hear the sickening thud of her body hitting the rink and then slamming onto the ice.

Sometimes I see her collide. Sometimes I see her face twisted with panic, hear the cry-desperate and shaky as she tries to dig her blades in, see her body slam into the rink's edge, too late to even think of trying to slow herself down. See her fall back, head hitting the ice, blood pooling under her.

Sometimes I see her lying still. Motionless. Cold and crumpled on the ice. Bleeding and limp, body twisted into harsh unforgiving angles. Cold air surrounding her and emptiness stretching out.

And each time...each time I see her flash in front of my eyes, she's alone. A crumpled heap on the ice, breathing too shallow, lying there and no-one knows.

And it's all because of me.

"Cos it makes you feel in control...hurting someone...pushing someone to break makes you feel good about yourself does it Park?"

I'd wanted to hurt (Y/N), had wanted to push her away, had wanted her to go. To leave. To stop being inside my head, distracting me from focusing on ice hockey, from performing the best I could on the ice. For the team. For Coach.

I'd wanted her to go, wanted nothing more than distance because the further away she was, the clearer my head would be.

I'd wanted her to go... I never wanted her to get hurt. I never wanted her to get injured.

"I never meant-" but no word, no excuse would've been sufficient. Everything falls hollow. Empty. Every word becomes meaningless, confronted with blazing eyes that are unforgiving and vengeful.

I never meant to hurt you like this (Y/N) but I hurt you much more anyways.

Because hurting her meant I would feel better. For a moment, for an instant...I did it to feel better about myself. I did it to feel less cornered. But it pushed her into a corner instead.

It pushed her to fall.

All my fault.

My blades can't seem to unstick themselves, can't manage to skate away, eyes rooted there-phantom visions of the collision burning itself across my irises. Stuck there as my mind re-conjures the countless scenarios for how it might've happened.

Get your head in the game Park.

But my mind couldn't be further from ice hockey.

It's stuck.

Rooted around one person.

The same person I made go and the same person who's now gone. Injured.

The slam of my hockey stick against the ice is harsh, aggressive. Frustration and guilt slamming itself into the ice, taking out a chunk of it.

What was it all for?

[......]

I wipe my hand against my shirt, skin clammy and sweaty as I raise my hand to knock against her dorm room door.

"(Y/N)?" voice tinny. Thin and weak.

I knock again.

"(Y/N)... I just... I wanted to apologise. For a lot." words rushing past my lips.

I knock again.

"(Y/N)? You there?"

"I know I'm the last person you ever want to see again, and I get that. I get it. I just... I want to say sorry... I'm so sorry. I'm sorry for..." everything. For everything I've done. For hurting you. For pushing you away. For belittling you. Demeaning you. Undermining your effort.

There's no answer.

She's not in.

Or she doesn't want to hear it.

But the message is clear.

She doesn't want anything to do with me.

And I can't blame her for it.

She doesn't even want to hear my voice.

And I can't blame her for it.

My hand falls weakly to my side.

She doesn't deserve an apology to a closed door, doesn't deserve an apology where she can't hear me, where she won't... she won't want to listen.

She deserves an apology to her face. She deserves so much, and I've got nothing but an apology that'll fall weak and short and nothing that can make amends for what I've done.

Message received.

But the apology sits heavy, crushing my lungs, and wanting nothing more than to be said.

The guilt dragging that leaden weight down, heart sinking into unfathomable depths.

An apology won't ever be enough.

But she still deserves to hear it.

She's still owed it.

[......]

"You know... I know you're doing this to be at your prime. For the team... for Coach... for you. But you need to refocus. Decide what your priorities are and where they lie." Namjoon remarks, his breathing just as heavy as my own, shaking out sweat-slick hair from his face. A bottle of water held out. An offering.

"The sport. My career-our career Namjoon."

Because with everything done and gone... it all comes down to this. It was all for this.

So if anything has to matter now, if it has to be for anything... it's this. For ice hockey. For us. For the team.

"Then how about I help? Like we've always done... we practice together? Train with me. You're your own harshest critic. But you need someone who's seeing where the improvements need to be and where your strengths are... it's not about making you feel shit. When we both know you're damn good at what you do."

There's a low smooth confidence in his voice. An unwavering belief in his eyes that brings me some semblance of ease, of comfort. Faint reassurance gained from the way he nods at me, understanding and willing.

"And it's not going to mess with your own slots-"

"We'll practice like we always have. Slot them together. You get more done if there's someone challenging you on the ice than you do running drills by yourself."

I let myself grip onto the reassurance and confidence Joon exudes, let myself be swayed towards the idea.

Let myself push away the thought of who's been challenging me, pushing me, taunting, riling, provoking me until it pulled the best of me, the most competitive part of me out. Push away the thought of curled lips and smirked words and fiery eyes.

Push away the thought because I've done enough. And the message couldn't be clearer. I don't deserve to be around her, near her... I'd ruined things enough. I'd ruined things and pushed things too far to be allowed to grasp onto even memories, though they swirl unbidden in my mind.

Push away the thought, the memory and focus on Joon. On his words.

Because all I'd done in all the practices recently was push and push and push and still be left dissatisfied.

Maybe Joon was right, maybe I needed someone on the ice to get me out of my own head. Needed someone to challenge me for me able to strengthen my own failings and shortcomings. I couldn't see them if I made myself blind to anything except the feeling of it just feeling wrong, wrong, wrong.

"Thanks Joon."

"What's a captain for? Or better... what sort of hyung would I be if I didn't push you to be the better and best version of yourself."

I had to be a better version of myself.

Because the sacrifice I'd given meant that if anything... I needed to be the best at this. I needed to be the best centre on the ice, best player. I needed to show Coach it wasn't all for nothing.

(Y/N) POV:

Lethargy weighs heavy on my bones. Something about the slowly turning weather, nights and days becoming colder that seems to sink into my bones, permeate my flesh and burrow itself inside my skin. I love the seasons turning, love the sign of autumn approaching and the competitive season beginning. But something about it this time spells doom and misery and hardship in the way that I struggle to get my body out of bed, wanting nothing more than to sink into the darkness and stay there. Wanting nothing more than to drag the blankets over my head, Kook's scent filling the sheets, laced with the scent of his detergent. Want nothing more than to let the warmth of his body drag me back down heavy, dreamless sleep.

"(Y/N)... icicle time to wake up." Voice soft, trying to draw me out of that hazy emptiness, feeling the brush of fingers against my arm, skimming up my shoulder to shake me lightly. Voice groggy and heavy, laced with a heaviness that hints that he's struggling to blink his eyes open too.

Responsibility makes him slowly shift up, stretching out, sleepy yawns and groggy voice, the sounds of a room stirring awake alongside Kook.

"Cmon (Y/N)... wake up."

"I don't want to." Voice heavy, sinking back down into the pillows, sinking into the sheets. Wanting nothing more than for them to reach out and drag me further into them.

"Gotta do things you don't want to. Cmon we'll start off easy today. Walk and then a jog around campus."

"I don't want to." Sighing heavier, fingers clutching at the blankets, head turning into the pillows.

But then his hands are peeling the blankets back with a strength he shouldn't have this early in the morning. My eyes fall to the curtains, still drawn, the sky outside still dark.

Weighted heavy black that crowds around me, that presses closer. Threatens to drag my eyelids down again.

But I can't find the sheer will to drag myself upright, even though already...this early, in the back of my mind worry already begins to stir, begins to whisper that if I don't get up, I won't even be doing the bare minimum. I won't even be managing the very basic training that Coach has set me.

Get up, get up, get up, get up.

"Cmon...get up." Somehow it's easier to listen to his voice than it is to listen to mine. And the voice in my head is soothed by the insistent tugging of my hands by his, eyes heavy and blinking at him.

The faint curve to his mouth, face still sleep-laced and smiling, drowsy and droopy, is a balm to the voice in my head.

Quietens it before that voice has a chance to grow.

"Now I've shoved you under the shower before, don't make me do it this time." the threat clear in his voice, the sleepy tilt to his lips promising.

"And if it's easier than dragging myself up?"

"I'll turn it on cold."

The threat has my body dragging to the bathroom, movements lethargic and slow as I undress, the very space that's Jungkook's brings an unfailing calm and comfort, begins to ease away the lethargy that drags at my limbs, that makes them feel uncooperative and stiff slowly begin to wake.

Leeching away the lethargy under hot water, under the slow process of dressing, clothes drawn out of drawers and his wardrobe. The space is Jungkook. But in that space he keeps me.

Comfort isn't lethargy.

It doesn't sit heavy in me.

But it's hard to leech it away entirely, body slowly warming up, slowly awakening, slowly stirring to life. Walk slow and unrushed, slow steps morphing into a leisurely jog, steps light...steadily...steadily turning brisk. Faster. Breaths warming until they're catching in my throat, until they're wavering against the cold air. Body flushed and heating up, steps falling into pace with Jungkook's.

And once I start, once I get into the rhythm of it, once I let myself get into the flow of it, then it's easy to follow into the pattern of it. The repetitive thump-thump-thump-thump of feet against the pavement, bodies weaving out onto the quieter paths that circle wide and across the campus grounds. It's quiet. But not quiet enough for the voice to stir back into consciousness. It's quiet but the sound of Jungkook's breaths, laced with exertion and effort, the heavier sound to his exhales, the puff of breaths that echo and mirror my own, body falling into sync with his.

It's quiet but it's not silent.

[......]

It's when it's silent that it's easy for the feelings of doubt and insecurity to come creeping back.

[......]

My eyes, my brain, my thoughts muse at what they see. A critiquing unforgiving assessment of the laboured breaths, you should be able to regulate your breathing without fail, the soreness in my legs, down to the tips of my toes, the wrappings around them secure, the trickle of sweat snaking down my back, a hot streak trailing downwards, aware that right now I'm dripping sweat. Overheated and skin clammy, sticky. The music's not trailed off into silence, it's been cut off. Abruptly. Displeasure reflecting back at me as I look into the reflection, dissatisfied with what I see.

Hands loosening from the barre as I straighten up.

Eyes tracing down the lines of my body, adjusting my posture as I go, feet turning back out into first position.

Spine stiffening in a straight line, holding myself up stronger, taller, straighter.

If you don't stand like you're confident how are you meant to practice like you're confident? Like you know what you're doing.

"You're in here early. Warmed up-or done?" Jungkook's voice breaks my reverie, breaks my stare from myself to turn to watch him enter the practice room. Turn to look at him, his brows furrowed and eyes questioning.

"Ballet makes everyone sweat."

His eyes drop down to my legs, to the secure wrappings around my ankles and feet. Hiding what I know will be bruised flesh, sore from practicing the moves en pointe-trying to mimic the feeling of being balanced on the tip of my skates.

His eyes are gauging. Contemplating. Narrow slightly as he slips off his bag, comes to stand beside me.

Fingers curling against the barre, grimacing when he feels the heat of my skin, the clamminess there still, wipes his hand down the front of his shirt.

"Lemme get warmed up while you have a water break and then we'll practice the transitions."

Voice brooking no argument, no discussion, gaze pointed that whilst he warmed up, I was sitting out, watching. Voice continuing to run a constant stream of conversation, not the slightest bit winded or breathless by the time a thin sheen of sweat gathers at his temples and hairline, body stretching out one final time before Kook turns. A cursory check to the bottle beside me and his hand stretched out in silent ask for me to toss him one too.

"What move do you want to practice first?"

"Test out the balance of the swan-arch move? And then if we can manage the balance of me on your thighs?"

But the cautiousness... the carefulness that's settled into my movements is aided further by the overly-cautious voice in my head. Voice warning me about what another injury, another slip, another fall could do to me, could do to end everything.

And with that thought, a crippling sense of nausea threatens to sweep over me. Threatens to drag my movements entirely to a still.

The voice of caution a permanent hiss in my ears.

Warning.

Fragile.

Vulnerable.

Careful, careful you don't mess it up. Careful where you step, careful how you execute the lifts and turns. Don't ruin it, don't ruin it, don't ruin it.

"Ready?"

I nod.

"Ready."

The touches are familiar, the motions practiced and second-nature. But there's a careful edge to the moves that makes my spine stiffen even though it should arch.

It makes my body subconsciously adjust its weight even as it settles securely across Jungkook's thighs.

Mind running through hundreds of variations of how even off the ice, this move could go wrong. How if Kook's hands were to falter in their grip, I could tumble to the floor. Ears ringing with a premonition of the crack and thud of my body, the same way it had when I fell on the ice. Hear the sickening thud echo through my ears.

"I've got you (Y/N)." words reassuring. Voice low against my skin as if he senses the hesitance, can feel it in the way my body doesn't tilt back far enough.

"I know... wait, wait... sorry." Body straightening, disentangling from his. Balance re-steadying as I stand opposite him.

Wiping my hands against my sides. Trying to wipe clean the clammy unease.

"Okay let's try again."

A nod.

Hands reaching forward, tugging me nearer half a step so our bodies are flush to one another.

Head tilting closer to mine.

Eyes searching.

Voice grounding. Confident and certain.

"You've got this."

I nod. But the gesture feels shaky. Unstable.

Hands lifting me to him, my weight astride his thighs as Jungkook turns. Slowly at first and then steadily building up some semblance of speed. Trying to mimic the quickness of the motion when it'll translate to blades and ice.

"Okay...3, 2, 1. Tilt. And then sink into the swan arch." voice a murmured guidance.

My back arches, tilting back. Balance narrowing down to where his hands grip the low of my back. But alongside the awareness... an overly consciousness sinks in, narrows to the fact that this entire move relies on how I can keep my balance on such a small point of contact.

"Okay good... tilt further." Instruction low.

"I am." breath wavering. Spine arching further.

"Go further... I've got you." His reassurance is unneeded. In all of this Jungkook is the only thing I'm sure of, the only factor that keeps me sinking into panic.

I will my body to arch further, to tilt deeper and further back across his hands, so focused on making sure my body's pushing back as far as it can that I feel my balance on his legs wobble. Feel his hands move to grab me at the last moment, a hand at my thigh, the other at my back. Stopping me from crashing onto the wooden floor.

Balance righted, body straightened, breaths wobbling.

Jungkook notices.

Senses hyperalert.

Slowly guiding them to calm, to settle before we even attempt the move again.

But I falter once, twice, thrice. Frustration ebbing up because every time the move's fallen apart it's been because of me.

And Jungkook must sense the tension in my body, in the way it rolls off me, stress pinching my brows, setting my shoulders stiffly, determined and tension winding tighter and tighter, coils around my lungs that makes me second-guess every move, every micro-movement of my body to the point where when the move falls apart a fifth time the frustration implodes.

"I can't do it."

"You can."

"I can't!"

"You're doubting and hesitating over every decision. Don't."

"I can't help it. What if I fall?"

"When have I ever let you fall?"

"Plenty of times!"

"When have I ever let you fall and get hurt? You're not going to hurt yourself.

"But what if... what if I do?"

"You won't. I won't let you get hurt." His voice is so firm, so certain, the gentleness in his eyes so soft, so knowing, understanding where the hesitancy comes from, what it's rooted in.

And if he believes it, the voice in my head quietens too.

That there's no-one I trust more than Jeon Jungkook.

And to affirm it, there's an even stronger and firmer grip with a carefulness that's an unspoken see? Even more certain now, that his eyes spell.

Body arching back, trusting, willing the pliancy in my move, in the line of my body to mould into the deep arched curve, hands stretching back to reach the tips of my fingers towards the floor.

"Good... good... steadier breaths...I'm going to turn."

"You can hold me a bit looser-there's resistance when it comes to me bending." I murmur, adjusting my stance across Kook's. Observing that with his sprawled grip, it offers both protection and limitation in it.

His eyes unwavering but there's something in them, a hesitance that in turn bleeds into my. His hesitance elicits uncertainty, a doubt that maybe-I-can't-do-it-entirely which is why he's playing it carefully. Limbs stiff, not able to tilt back as far as I can, as far as I should.

"Sure?" testing. Checking.

"Sure."

But I can feel that even though I follow the motions, follow the technique, follow the practiced angle, there's a mechanicalness to the move itself.

As if without being on the ice, I can't fully test to be sure whether it's me or whether it's simply the lack of glide and resistanceless motion of skates on ice.

Should it feel this stiff? Do I make it stiff? Loosen your spine.

"I can feel your brain overthinking the move again." hands shifting to slowly draw my body up from its arch and back to him, hand dragging up my spine to cup the back of my neck.

Eyes drawn back to his, face hovering close to his, eyes reading me in a flash.

"How can you tell?"

"Your body stiffens when it starts to doubt itself." voice an observing murmur, drawing my body closer.

The imitation of a close embrace, of limbs entangled and bodies flush. Lips close enough that I feel his breath ghost along my own mouth.

"If I'm careful then I won't slip up."

"If we're careful then you got nothing to doubt." dark eyes promising. Unwavering from my own.

Breaths winded slightly as we still, as my body slowly unwinds from his.

"Again." the word out my mouth, immediate.

"Again?"

"Again. I can't be stiff."

He nods.

"Okay. Again."

[......]

There's a limit.

A limit to how much Kook lets us practice.

Calling it when our bodies are slick with sweat and his grip on me keeps slipping.

Calls it when really... we've only practiced lifts.

Calls it... when there's so much to still run through.

"Kook please-one more hour."

"Nope."

"Just one more... I just want to practice the lifts without the pausing and adjusting. Try it out as if that's it. Performance ready."

"No (Y/N)."

"But you don't understand..."

"I understand just fine. And I'm calling it. No more practice for the day."

But I'm not ready, I'm not done.

"You're ready. Don't you see... you've got it. Not me."

The stern firmness from his gaze melts, shifts, his eyes turning deeper, heavier as he shakes his head.

Breaths shaky as he turns to look at me.

"I'm not saying we're performance ready. I'm saying I'm chunking up the practices. I'm not overworking it-"

"You mean me. You can't afford to overwork me." a bite to my voice, a defensiveness that wells up, that takes just one thing from his words. He can't risk it with me.

"I'm not overworking anyone. Limits (Y/N). You have to adjust to them again."

"I am... I will..."

"Practicing until you can't isn't the same as productive practice. No means no (Y/N)."

My shoulders tense, hunch inwards.

Defeat makes my stomach sink.

Makes that empty gaping sense of not being enough stretches open wider at his words.

You're not practicing right.

"Fine."

"Icicle..."

"It's fine Kook. Let's just... let's head back."

But before we can go, before we leave, his hand snags mine. Squeezing apologetically, eyes remorse and contrite. Voice level and low. Tugging me into him, until breaths merge and the press of his body to mine, clammy and familiar, clings to me in the way Jungkook does, his scent does.

"I'm sorry. But I can't risk you... I won't risk you. You mean too much icicle." Arms wrapped around me.

Arms unwilling to let me go until the tension melts from my body, ebbing away in slow waves. Leeches out of me, lungs following the pattern of his breathing, and with it calms the racing thrum of panic and unrest in my chest.

Voice chasing away the errant one inside my head.

"I'm scared if I won't practice more then it won't be enough." Voice muffled against his chest, hands gripping tightly at him, fingers digging in.

His hands grip me tighter.

"It will be."

[.......]

If it's not lethargy dragging me down, it's that insistent need to do more, more, more, more until that hollowed feeling is filled with exhaustion, with grim, tired satisfaction.

It's either lethargy and the voice in my head whispering to just let the world slow.

Or it's that frantic bubbling antsy feeling that makes my skin itch, the words in my head demanding do more, do more, do more.

It's either quiet.

Or it's loud.

But it leaves me feeling drained, leaves my limbs heavy and my brain pleading for it to shut off.

----------------------

I know it's paranoia speaking more than my consciousness but I feel watched. Feel as if multiple times gazes flit to me, feel as if both Coaches look at me with something more, something assessing, something heavy and calculating. As if they see me. And then wonder whether I should be there.

As if everything that's happened has managed to undo everything I've worked for. And by doing that I've lost my place on the ice, lost my worth, my right to stand here.

Even surrounded by teammates, even surrounded by others to hide and lessen the intensity of their gazes but I feel like out of the crowd, out of all of them, they're watching me.

"We've monitored a lot of practices coming up but what we've not seen is those separate segments executed together. So over the next week we're going to review everyone's paired and solo routines and see how much progress has been made."

My eyes search out Jungkook's, read the reassurance there, his gaze turning as if it senses mine.

But there's a level of unpreparedness that still makes me feel on edge, makes me feel as if despite it all... despite all my trying I'm not ready.

I'm not ready, I'm not ready, I'm not ready.

And the thought terrifies me. The feeling of not being prepared makes my skin feel tight and uncomfortable, my muscles taut.

Coiled up and tense- the thrumming tension in my veins seem to prepare for fight or flight.

But it's got to be fight all the way.

I've got to fight for this. For me, for us.

But all I want to do, confronted with the intensity of their gazes, is run. Is the antsy feeling for flight.

[......]

The shame that slithers through my consciousness is poisonous. It hisses. It's cruel and unforgiving. And it mocks me with a voice that's low and heavy and thick with disappointment, with cruelty.

Didn't think you were the type to give up so easy? Or is that what it is... coddled princess can't even put in the effort to get up and practice properly.

Limbs heavy, stiff and uncoordinated even before I get to the smaller rinks.

Having checked once, twice, multiple times for the training schedule. Because the voice that was burrowing into my mind, sinking its claws there, I couldn't afford to come face to face with its owner. I didn't want to.

The last thing I wanted was to see Jimin after how insignificant, how small, how pathetic he'd made me feel.

The last thing I needed was for the disembodied voice to take form, to twist his lips with a vicious cruel smile and for taunting sharp eyes to watch, to even be able to see me step onto the ice. Watchful and waiting for a fumble, for a fall.

For the opportunity to comment on how easily I've been setback. That all it took was him stating the truth.

Skittish about setting myself back onto the ice, legs fumbling and uncoordinated. An entire lack of grace and solidness, skates teetering as I take the first step onto the rink.

It's smaller, considerably so than the main rink, but even so something about the ice daunts me in a way it never has before.

A lack of firmness there, breaths measured and counted for each inhale and each exhale.

Stepping more solidly onto the ice.

I won't fall. I won't fall.

I've practiced too much to fall now.

I've done too much to slip now.

Have you? Do you even know the meaning of hard work?

I do, I do, I do. I've poured in my all.

If that's not enough, I don't know what is.

"(Y/N)! Wait up-" hurried steps, a body fumbling into mine, chest to my back, hands wrapping around me to steady us both, skates gliding easily across the ice. A half-laugh tumbles past my lips, lights up Kook's face, makes his expression beam, nose scrunching.

And I realise it's been days since I've seen his face light up with a smile. It's been days since I've seen him look at me without a fraction of something troubled or worried or fretting.

"Finally a laugh. Thought you'd forgotten how to." Arms wrapping more securely around me, a sudden twist that briefly startles a yelp out of me.

That makes the achy shadowy emptiness feel fractionally filled.

"You know what to say-to make the doubts quieten." I admit later, body slumping tiredly into the stands, sinking into a seat.

Head thunking back against the seat's edge.

His body joins mine, slumping into the seats, the press of heat against my side clammy but familiar.

His voice low and heavy, drawn out with laboured breaths.

"What else are partners for?"

And I feel the brush of his pinky silently linking with mine.

[......]

"We've got this."

"Do we?"

"We do."

"We've practiced so much. But I'm scared I'll be stuck in my head."

"Don't worry-just look for me... look at me."

"I won't ruin it will I?"

"The (Y/N) I know threatens to come after my ass if I ruin things. Not the other way around."

"That (Y/N) seems to have lost some of her nerve."

"Don't worry-she's still in there."

[......]

Silence.

Deadly, crippling silence.

The music fades away and leaves behind... silence.

And in that silence the acutely aware nausea amplifies. Bile that stings the back of my throat.

Body wanting to shrink back, hand wanting to disentangle from Jungkook's, to melt away out of sight because I can't stand the silence. Can't stand disentangling only to come face to face with both of the Coaches' faces. With the silence carved deep into their features.

And the look of quiet contemplation in their eyes. The curiosity across faces that seem almost... blank. Unaffected.

I feel my fingers tremble and then spasm, stretch wide. Feel Jungkook's hand grip mine.

But it's not reassuring.

It's not comforting.

It's a reminder of who I've failed.

And who I've disappointed.

And the nervous flutter of my pulse ricochets to a wild hammering thudding.

It's not just the two faces in front of me I can't bear to look at, I can't stand the thought of turning my head and reading the disappointment, the crushing reality that I'm dead weight. And today... today I've proven it.

The silence grows. Heavier, thicker. Cloying and suffocating. Until I think I'll choke under the feeling. Until I think I won't be able to bear it, a scream building up in the back of my throat and wanting to tear out and plead just say. Whatever it is just SAY.

"The technicalities are there..." Coach Kim begins.

A faint fluttering hope rises briefly in my chest.

And plummets even quicker.

"But..." he continues.

"But there's something so strongly missing." He observes.

My fingers grip Kook's tighter.

"Can you two tell me what it is?" Coach Seo prompts.

"We were... I was off beat." I clear my throat, feel their gazes turn to me.

Brows furrowing slightly.

"That wasn't the thing it's missing. Adjusting the half-beat difference is easily fixed." Coach Seo reassures.

But it only makes the worry swirl thicker.

Then what was it?

"The moves didn't synchronise with the music piece better? Is there adjustments you want us to make Coach?" I push.

A slow shake of her head.

Their gazes are pointed, wanting us... wanting me to realise what it's missing.

Realisation sinks in. Whatever it's missing... it's in me. It's my doing.

I told you, I told you, I told you the voice in my head hisses. Heavy with disdain.

I told you trying isn't enough. Looks like Jimin was right all along... leaning on your partner only gets you so far.

Because you're dead weight.

Dead weight.

And you've dragged Jungkook down.

And now they're disappointed. And Jungkook-he's going to be even more disappointed.

For trusting you, for choosing you as a partner.

Well done dead weight.

"Can either of you tell me the three scoring systems for figure skating?"

"The technical score, the grade of execution score and-"

"The program components." I finish.

"You're both able to execute the moves. You'd get the marks for it sure. But you're missing any sort of emotional resonance with the piece. With the music and the routine itself."

And there's a look of bewilderment on their expressions. A disbelief.

Beside me Jungkook shifts.

"You both have always scored high because of the routine's performance quality... because you guys have insane chemistry. But something-" eyes subtly flickering over to me, appraising and wondering and confused.

"It's executing the moves simply for the sake of executing them-you're not feeling the piece you're performing. Why is that (Y/N)?"

And it's as if they were slowly reeling out the conversation to inevitably settle on me. Setting it out so carefully that when it finally lands on me, when the fault is because of me, it shouldn't crash into me so hard.

It doesn't.

It doesn't slam into me.

It sinks in, clamps and shackles around my limbs, heavy weights that make moving impossible. Forced to stand there, immobile and unmoving, eyes held and rooted by Coach Seo's.

An assessing quality to her eyes, careful, slow examination that I can't turn my head away from. No matter how hard I try.

It's me.

The realisation sinks in further, deeper.

It's my fault. Me that's lacking.

"I just-"

"You were lost somewhere. You could tell that you weren't present." Coach Kim murmurs. Voice softer, gentler.

Trying to coax the answer from me.

But I know what he means.

The answer doesn't need to be eased out of me when it's been the blaring thought at the forefront of my mind. Overly conscious and hyperalert of every movement I'd been making, mind counting out the steps, the paces, the breaths as we executed the moves together.

So focused and trained on making sure I didn't fumble it that it lacked any sort of emotion, any connection to the piece.

They felt it because I felt it. Or rather I didn't.

I wasn't connecting to the piece, I wasn't connecting to the music-barely hearing it over the voice in my head counting out every single motion, cataloguing it. A running commentary of outlining every step I needed to do.

"I was making sure I didn't fumble the moves."

A dip of his head.

"By internalising the steps?"

I nod.

"And that hyperfocus shifted your awareness from the piece itself." He concludes.

Another nod, head dipping lower.

The back of my neck prickling.

Unease beginning to course through me, spark uncomfortably across my skin. Bated breaths in wait for what that means.

"It's not just a today thing though is it. We've noticed you've been off. Distracted."

The ice under my skates is slippery. My balance wobbles.

See the shaky exhale as a misty cloud in front of my face. See it melt away.

"I've been working on it Coach. I know I'm... I've not been at my best. But I will get there."

Silence. Thick and cloying and one that chokes the air from my lungs.

"I think it's best... we think it's healthy if you take a bit of a break this week." The gentleness of Coach's voice doesn't soften the blow. The way my chest constricts, a painful vice-grip that makes it hard to breathe, hard to think past the condemnation of her words.

I shake my head. I don't need another break, I need to keep going. I need to keep practicing-if anything today proved that. Why put me on break? Put me on hold?

"I don't need a break Coach."

"It'll be good to take a step back (Y/N)." Final. Decisive.

"Coach I don't need one."

"We think-we all think that you need time. To take a breather."

And their firmness, their unwavering decision threatens to shatter any semblance of holding myself together, of willing myself to be better, do better.

After everything... I can't. I can't pause. I can't stop. I can't take a break.

"Coach you don't understand... my head's in the game. I'm focused."

"(Y/N)..." voice placating. Full of a sympathy I don't need because I'm fine.

No you don't understand. I can't take a break. I can't afford another break. All I need is another chance. Please. Another chance. Please. I can do better. I will be better. I can be better. Please, please, please. I can... I'll try even more, I'll do everything and anything. Just... trust me Coach. Trust me I can... I can do it-

Breaths rattling my lungs, eyes blinking out hot thick tears, words a messy spill from my mouth. My hand disentangles from Jungkook's, presses to my cheeks, scrubbing at the tears that spill in quick succession. I'm not weak, I'm not weak, I'm not weak, but they trickle down unbidden. Lungs rattling with a rapidly hollowing emptiness, one that threatens to sweep me into its void entirely. The press of fresh tears stinging my eyes at the attempt of a soft voice trying to ease away the panic but now that it's spilled out, it can't be drawn back in. A tight noose around my neck, words sentencing me with the threat of a break. I didn't need a break, I didn't, I didn't.

"Hey hey... listen." Hands quick and frantic, voice low and trying to soothe, gathering me nearer, my head shaking frantically.

Trying to dispel the words from my ears. Tears quiet misery. Defeat.

"I don't need a break... I'll do better. I'll be better. I can be better... I'll put everything into it..."

"You already are. You already do. Listen... (Y/N) listen. Listen."

"Jungkook-"

"(Y/N) listen. A break for this week. A break to just breathe... to just stop." Words repeating them slow and firm, cutting through the jumbled mess, the splintering crashing sound of everything falling apart.

"If I stop... If I stop everything I've worked for becomes noth-"

"It does not become nothing. A few days... a few days to stop. And then come back refreshed."

"It's a punishment isn't it?" words strangled. The realisation a physical blow that leaves me winded.

The hands at my shoulders grip tighter, moving to tilt my face up.

Voice sharper with defence.

"No."

"(Y/N) we're worried you're in danger of getting stuck in a cycle of over-training. Of putting mind over matter. We want you to take this break not for us... for you." Coach murmurs, her presence easing closer, her eyes flashing with an echo of an anguish, a similar torment.

Nodding reassuringly.

Comfort trying to be offered in the understanding look.

As if she knows. She gets it.

As if she knows that right now this is the best thing for me.

But all I can think, all I've come to realise is that Jimin might've fucked me over but it's me who's digging my grave now.

[......]

"Actually I just wanted to have a word with (Y/N) before you guys left."

Jungkook's steps linger, slow down, hovering at the door.

"Just (Y/N)." smile warm but the unease that's constantly churning in my stomach twists painfully at the sight. At the balm it's offering to be for the words it's about to say.

The expression on his face is hesitant.

And he lingers for a few more moments, eyes silently conveying that he'll be on the other side of the door.

"I'm sorry Coach. I know I've let you down."

My head dips down, eyes turning away from the look of intent worry in her eyes.

Hear her tilt closer, hear her tug her chair nearer.

Unable to bring myself to look up, to keep looking into the faces of the people I've disappointed so much. That I've let down.

The word protégé leaves a sour taste in my mouth, shame and embarrassment at the thought that Coach... that the woman in front of me, someone I wanted to do nothing more than make proud... I can't bear to look up and see how much I've let her down.

"You haven't. The reason... the reason I want you to take a break is because it feels like you're teetering into a slump. And I want you to get out, get away from the negative feelings. From the doubts, the insecurities, the worries. I want you to get away from the voice that keeps telling you to do more."

And yet the empathy in her voice, the understanding there betrays a deeper sense of knowledge, of awareness towards exactly what's going through my head.

My eyes dart up, nervous and uncertain, and find a sense of a kindred spirit in her gaze.

In the way that when she looks at me... she sees me. She sees right through me.

"It's hard to ignore it isn't it? The voice that makes you doubt yourself?"

I nod.

"Sometimes that voice sounds like the very people we trust. But that doesn't mean those people think that about you, about your talent... it's when your mind is tired. It's worn down. It's not just the body that gets exhausted (Y/N)."

Eyes full of an achy awareness.

The pressure behind my eyelids grow but I will it back.

I'm tired of crying, I'm tired of feeling this way.

"I feel... some days I wonder what'll happen if I just didn't try. But whenever I think that... my mind... my brain won't shut down. It won't let me stop."

"You've worked so hard your entire life (Y/N)-that's why giving up isn't easy. But what those odd days are telling you... is to stop. To rest. That's why I want you to take the rest of the week off. The weekend too. I want you to stop existing as (Y/N) the figure skater and just live as (Y/N)."

And the way she says it, the offer so gentle, so careful... it makes me wonder. It makes me see a flash of something shared behind the watchfulness of her eyes.

"Will it help?" because you know, because you've tried, because... because I think you've felt the same way.

"It will if you let it." voice gentle.

"So take the break... take the time to decompress. To get away from training, from routines, from the rink. Take the time to let your mind rest too."

I nod.

And the reassuring squeeze of a hand reaching for mine, of knowing empathetic eyes and of a voice that softly promises it'll be okay if you stop to breathe that makes my lungs expand and draw in air properly... from the moment the music had ended.

Breathe.

Breathe.

"Take the break to breathe." She repeats.

As if she can sense the pressure in my lungs hasn't made it easy to.

As if she can sense that for a while now I haven't been able to.

(AND IOGWEHGIEWSSD OHMYGOD I CAN'T STOP BEING ICY-BRAINED AND WANTING TO WRITE MORE AND MORE OF THIS FIC SO @Midiiplier YOU MENACE INSIDE MY HEAD ALSO MAKING ME CONSTANTLY ICY-CHAOTIC THIS IS ON YOU! AND THERE'S SO MUCH TO COME... SO MUCH OF (Y/N)'S GROWTH AND FINDING HERSELF, FINDING HER PLACE AFTER ALL THE ACHE JIMIN'S CAUSED HER AND SO MUCH REALISING AND UNDERSTANDING HE NEEDS TO GO THROUGH TOO... AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH! CUE THE ANGST!)

Borahae! 💜💜💜

PurpleQueenie <3