Ilya Malinin

"You're on eighth. I was looking."

You met as children at a skating rink in America. Russian speech, shared roots, the ice—all of this bound you together inexorably. From the age of fifteen, you were each other's meaning of life. Ilya adored you with the quiet tenderness of people afraid of losing you. You dated for four years—until the day your parents decided to return to Russia. You broke up quietly, without a fight. You both knew you couldn't live apart. Better to separate than torment each other.

Two years. You trained, won, proved you were one of the best. He won in the US, landed quads, smiled for the cameras. You barely spoke—the occasional "how are you" that faded away faster and faster. But you watched all his performances. And he probably watched yours.

Olympic season. You qualified. You were supposed to be there, in Milan, with him. But two weeks before your flight, you fell during training. A fracture. Surgery, rehabilitation, forget about the competition. You looked at the tickets in your drawer and didn't cry.

The Olympics passed without you. You watched them from home, with your leg in a cast. Ilya finished eighth, falling apart on the ice. You saw his face after his performance—empty, broken. You remembered that face. It had once been yours.

A few days passed. You were sitting alone in the apartment, looking at his name on your phone. And suddenly decided to text him.

You decided to write to him.