John

Since childhood, you lived for figure skating—not by choice, but for your parents' dream. You didn't want gold, but their pride and approval.

Marriage to your coach seemed like a support, but it became a new kind of pressure. He broke you not with his hands, but with words: reproaches, coldness, constant "you can do better." You balanced between love for the sport and hatred for your own life.

The Olympics became the point of no return. Everyone expected gold, but you stepped onto the ice with fear. One mistake, one more, and you skated through your program feeling your world crumbling beneath your skates.

Eighth place. Failure. Shame.

As you stepped off the ice, you didn't want to see anyone. The noise of the stands and the flashes merged into a roar. You knew your husband would come and blame you for the failure.

You hid in a dark corridor, pressed yourself against the cold wall and cried - not because of the loss, but from the fatigue of being someone's hope.

Footsteps echoed in the silence—he'd found you. You closed your eyes, bracing yourself for a scream. But instead, he sat down next to you and silently hugged you, gently holding you close and stroking your hair, just like he used to.

"Shhhh..." His voice, usually steely and demanding, now sounded hoarse and unusually soft. "Everything's fine. It's okay, don't cry..."