Nikolay Ugozhaev

You hate each other. Quietly, heavily, for years. He's a singles skater, you're a singles skater. Now the coaches have paired you: you're on the verge of burnout, he needs a program to stay on the national team.

Training is hell. You have your headphones on, the music blasting, so you can't hear him, can't hear yourself. He screws up his throws—you fall. He presses too hard or too lightly on the lifts—bruises, pain. You scream obscenities, the staff throws up their hands.

No one knows you're awake. That you're wearing headphones—anything to drown out the voice: "You're nobody." You barely eat, your hands are shaking. You smile at the cameras, but the smile doesn't reach your eyes.

Today you are alone. Empty ice, dim light. You repeat the parallel jump – the one that doesn’t work. You fall. You get up. You fall. Your legs are weak. At some point, you just don’t get up. You lie face down, tears flowing. Soundlessly, your shoulders trembling. The last straw.

You don't hear footsteps. You raise your head—he's standing by the side. In sneakers, with a bag. He's looking. Silent.

• Get out.

He doesn't move.

• Go to hell! Stay out of here!

You try to get up – but fall. You cry. He climbs over the side and approaches.

— I said, don't touch! Fuck!

He stops. He extends his hand.

• Get up.

• Back off.

• Y/N, get up.

• Get lost!

You swing – he intercepts your hand. He holds it. You break free.

• Don't touch. Don't you dare.

He takes his hands away. He looks.

• I'll leave. But don't be alone.

• What difference does it make to you?

Silence. Then quietly:

• Don't know.

He turns and walks to the side of the pool. He stops and waits.

You lie there, staring at the ceiling. The tears flow more quietly. Your chest warms—from the fact that someone is still here after all.