Leaving started as arithmetic. Nyah didn't think of it as escape not yet. That word carried too much emotion, too much desperation. Arithmetic was safer. Numbers didn't care if you were afraid. She wrote everything down. Cost of passports, Visa fees she barely understood, Plane tickets she couldn't imagine buying and
Living expenses in countries she'd only seen through screens. The notebook grew heavier, thick with calculations and crossed-out hopes.
Every answer ended the same way. Not enough. She stared at the page long after the ink dried, chest tightening. The panic hovered close, waiting for an opening. She closed the notebook before it could speak.
At school, university brochures appeared like taunts. Canada, United States and Europe. Students clustered around tables during lunch, eyes bright, futures expanding outward. Nyah stayed back, watching from the edges. Amaya noticed.
"You going to check them out?" she asked, nudging Nyah lightly.
Nyah shook her head. "What's the point?"
Amaya frowned. "Information doesn't cost anything."
Nyah thought of the numbers. The dead ends. "It costs hope."
Amaya didn't argue. She just picked up a brochure and slipped it into Nyah's bag when she wasn't looking.
Nyah found it later, fingers brushing glossy paper.
Canada, Ice. Her throat tightened. Home felt tighter, too. Her mother watched her more closely now lingering glances, sharp questions disguised as concern.
"You sleeping?"
"You eating?"
"You still with that skating thing?" Nyah answered carefully, rationing truth. Her father stayed quieter than usual, which somehow felt louder. At night, Nyah practiced again. Carefully, Controlled ,No jumps and No spins that stressed her knee. Just edges. She traced invisible lines across the floor, bare feet sliding against tile. The rhythm steadied her breathing, focused her thoughts.
Movement returned something essential. But the pressure came with it. Every practice session ended the same way with the realization that she was getting better at something she wasn't allowed to do. The first job idea came from Amaya.
"My aunt needs help at her shop," Amaya said casually one afternoon. "Nothing fancy. Stocking. Cleaning."
Nyah's heart jumped. "She'd hire me?"
"Probably. You reliable."
"Reliable."
The word felt strange, heavy with expectation. That night, Nyah lay awake, staring at the ceiling fan. Work meant money , Money meant leaving and Leaving meant consequences she couldn't fully see. Her chest tightened not panic this time but Anticipation. The shop was small and cramped, shelves packed tight with groceries and household items. The air smelled like detergent and ripe fruit. Amaya's aunt looked Nyah up and down, assessing.
"You can lift?" she asked.
"Yes," Nyah replied immediately.
"You show up on time?"
"Yes."
"You don't steal?" Nyah blinked, then nodded. "No."
The woman smiled, satisfied. "Start Saturday." Nyah walked home that day with lightness in her step she hadn't felt in years.
She didn't tell her parents right away. She held the secret close, fragile and bright. Saturday mornings became routine.
Wake early. Work until her arms ached. Count the bills carefully before folding them into her notebook at night. The money grew slowly and painfully but it grew. Each dollar felt like proof she wasn't imagining this future that it might exist beyond her head. The guilt arrived quietly. Her mother complained about rising costs. Her father worked longer hours. Nyah watched them, the weight of her secret pressing on her chest. Was she selfish for wanting to leave?
The question gnawed at her. Amaya listened as Nyah voiced it one evening, sitting on the seawall again, waves crashing below. "You're allowed to want more," Amaya said simply.
"What if more costs too much?" Nyah asked.
Amaya shrugged. "Everything costs something."
Nyah stared out at the water, heart heavy. She knew that was true.
That night, she added a new list to her notebook. Things I will lose if I leave. It stayed empty longer than she expected. Then, slowly, she wrote one name. Amaya. Her hand trembled, leaving wasn't just arithmetic anymore. It was grief in advance.
Money changes the shape of days. Nyah learned that quickly. Her life split into segments school, work, practice, sleep. There was no room for drift anymore. No room to sit and let her thoughts spiral unchecked. Exhaustion became a kind of leash, keeping her anchored in the present whether she wanted to be there or not and she liked that. Her body hurt most days. Shoulders sore from lifting boxes. Hands roughened from cleaning supplies. Her knee complained when she stood too long, a dull reminder of limits she still refused to fully respect. Pain with purpose felt different.
It didn't quiet the noise completely, but it changed its tone. She told her parents about the job a month later. "I found work," she said one evening, standing in the doorway of the living room. Her mother looked up sharply. "What kind of work?"
"At a shop. Part-time."
Marcia's eyes narrowed. "Why you didn't say anything before?"
Nyah held her gaze. "I wanted to be sure."
Her father leaned back in his chair. "You need money for school?"
"Yes," Nyah said. It wasn't a lie. Just not the whole truth.
They exchanged a look one of those silent conversations Nyah had grown up watching from the outside. "Well," Marcia said finally, "just don't let it distract you." Nyah nodded. Inside, something tightened. The guilt grew heavier the more money she saved. Each folded bill felt like a quiet theft time taken from her parents, energy siphoned from a household already stretched thin. She noticed things she'd ignored before: her mother's hands rough from work, the crease between her father's brows that never quite smoothed.
At night, the thoughts crept in again. You're abandoning them. You owe them more than this. She tried to counter them with logic. I'm not leaving yet. I'm just preparing. The thoughts didn't care. Amaya noticed the change.
"You're tired," she said one afternoon, watching Nyah rub at her wrists absently.
"I'm fine."
Amaya tilted her head. "That's your favorite lie."
Nyah huffed. "I don't have another one ready." They walked in silence for a while, the familiar rhythm between them easing some of the tension. "You told your parents?" Amaya asked.
Nyah nodded. "Not everything."
Amaya didn't push. She never did. "You don't have to carry it alone, you know."
Nyah glanced at her. "You're already carrying enough."
Amaya smiled faintly. "That's not your call."
The pressure showed up in unexpected places. Nyah snapped at a coworker for stacking boxes wrong. She apologized immediately, heat flooding her face. Later, alone in the storage room, she pressed her forehead against the wall, breathing through the surge of emotion that followed anger, guilt, shame all tangled together. She practiced later that night, movements sharp, almost aggressive. Her foot slipped. She caught herself just in time, heart pounding. Careful, she warned herself. She couldn't afford another injury.
One evening, her mother sat beside her while she counted money.
"You saving a lot," Marcia observed.
Nyah's fingers stilled. "I'm trying to."
"For what?" her mother asked. Nyah considered the question. The truth hovered on her tongue, dangerous and heavy. "For the future," she said. Marcia nodded slowly. "Good."
The approval felt undeserved.
Later, alone, Nyah opened her notebook. She stared at the list she'd started days ago Things I will lose if I leave. Below Amaya's name, she added more. My parents' understanding, This version of myself and The excuse of impossibility. Her chest tightened. If she stayed, she would lose herself slowly. If she left, she would lose everything at once. The arithmetic didn't balance. That night, the ice came easily. She skated in her head with precision born of desperation. Every edge clean. Every turn exact.
But at the center of the rink, a weight pressed down on her chest. Even here, even in the place that saved her, something felt heavy. Wanting had consequences and Nyah was beginning to feel every single one. The first crack showed up as anger. Not loud anger. Not the kind that threw things or shouted. It settled into Nyah's chest like a low-grade fever, constant and exhausting. She snapped at small inconveniences. A dropped pen. A customer who took too long to decide. The fan at home rattling too loudly. Each time, shame followed immediately after, sharp and precise.
She hated that part most the way emotion arrived uninvited, then punished her for feeling it. One evening at the shop, Amaya's aunt asked her to stay late. "We short tonight," she said, already turning away. Nyah nodded automatically. By the time she left, the sky had gone dark. Her legs ached. Her knee pulsed, warning her in dull, rhythmic beats. She walked home alone, streets quiet, shadows stretching long across the pavement. Halfway there, the thought hit her. What if this is all it ever is? Work, save, wait and hurt. The panic rose fast, unfiltered. Her breathing shortened. Her hands shook. She stopped walking, pressing her palm flat against a wall, grounding herself in the rough concrete. Breathe. She closed her eyes.
The ice flickered into view but it wasn't smooth this time. Hairline fractures ran across its surface, branching outward no matter where she stepped. She opened her eyes quickly, heart pounding. That scared her. At home, her mother waited in the kitchen.
"You coming late," Marcia said.
"I stayed longer at work."
Marcia frowned. "School suffering?"
Nyah stiffened. "My grades are fine."
"For now," her mother replied. "Don't lose focus." Nyah swallowed the retort burning her tongue. She nodded instead, the familiar motion almost automatic.
In her room, she lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling. The anger came back, heavier now. They don't see you. They don't want to. She rolled onto her side, hugging herself, trying to keep the thoughts from tipping into something darker. The distance between her and Amaya shifted subtly. Not in affection. In tension. Amaya noticed when Nyah flinched at unexpected touches. When she went quiet mid-conversation. When she deflected questions with tired smiles.
"You don't have to be strong all the time," Amaya said one afternoon.
Nyah didn't look at her. "I don't know how else to be."
Amaya sighed. "You're allowed to rest."
Rest. The word felt foreign.
"I can't afford rest," Nyah said.
Amaya's expression tightened. "You sound like you already left."
The words landed hard.
Nyah turned sharply. "What's that supposed to mean?"
"It means you're halfway gone," Amaya replied quietly. "And you acting like that don't hurt." Guilt flared, immediate and intense.
"I don't want to hurt you," Nyah said.
"I know," Amaya replied. "But wanting and doing are different things." Nyah had no answer for that.
That night, Nyah practiced longer than she should have.
Her movements were precise but tense, every muscle wound too tight. She pushed through the discomfort, ignoring the warning signals her body sent. Her foot slipped. She caught herself, barely, knee screaming in protest. She stood there, frozen, breath ragged. This is how it happens, a voice whispered. You push until something breaks. She sank to the floor, hands trembling. The thought came back persistent, calm. You could stop. Not stop skating. Stop everything. Her chest tightened violently. She pressed her forehead to the floor, breathing hard, fighting the wave as it crashed over her.
"I'm not done," she whispered. "I'm not." The words felt fragile.
Later, she opened her notebook again. She flipped past the lists, the calculations, the losses. On a new page, she wrote:
What if I leave and still feel this way? The question stared back at her, unanswerable. For the first time, Nyah considered that ice might not save her completely. That scared her more than staying ever had. She lay in bed, staring into darkness, the fan humming its tired song. The ice appeared again but this time, she wasn't alone on it. The stands were empty. The lights harsh. The air cold enough to sting.
She skated anyway. And somewhere deep inside, a quiet voice asked:
What will it cost you to keep going?
Nyah didn't know yet.
But she was starting to feel the bill coming due.