Opportunities don't arrive loudly. They slip in sideways, half-formed, easy to miss if you're not already looking for exits. Nyah found hers by accident. She was at the shop, wiping down a shelf that never stayed clean, when a customer lingered longer than usual. A woman in her thirties, accent clipped, eyes sharp in a way Nyah recognized immediately the look of someone who paid attention to how bodies moved. "You dance?" the woman asked suddenly.
Nyah's hand froze mid-wipe. "No." The answer came too fast.
The woman tilted her head. "You move like you do."
Nyah's pulse jumped. "I just… stand a lot."
The woman smiled faintly. "Standing doesn't teach balance like that."
Nyah felt exposed, like someone had peeled back a layer she worked hard to keep intact. "I'm working," she said quietly, a boundary more than a response. The woman nodded. "Fair." She paused, then added, "My niece does figure skating. You ever watch it?" The word hit like a dropped plate.
"Yes," Nyah said before she could stop herself. Then softer, more careful, "A lot." The woman studied her for a long moment, then reached into her bag and pulled out a folded card. She set it on the counter.
"There's a small training program in Canada," she said. "Community-based. Not fancy. They sometimes take late starters."
Late. Nyah swallowed hard. "I don't skate." The woman's eyes softened not with pity, but with realism. "You don't yet."
She paid for her items and left, just like that. Nyah stood there long after, heart pounding, the card burning a hole in the counter between her hands. She didn't look at it until she got home.
She locked her bedroom door first. Her hands shook as she unfolded the card. A name, an email and a rink address printed beneath it. Canada. Ice. Her chest tightened painfully, like something trying to force its way out. This isn't real, her mind warned. Don't touch it. She touched it anyway. Telling Amaya felt like stepping onto thin ice ironic and cruel. They sat on the seawall again, wind tugging at their clothes, the ocean loud enough to swallow secrets if needed.
"I met someone," Nyah said, staring straight ahead.
Amaya raised an eyebrow. "You making friends now?"
Nyah huffed a short laugh. "No. She asked if I dance."
Amaya smiled faintly. "You do move like you fighting gravity."
Nyah swallowed. "She mentioned a program in Canada." The smile faded.
Silence stretched between them, heavy and sharp.
"A program," Amaya repeated slowly. "As in… ice?" Nyah nodded.
Amaya exhaled, long and measured. "Is it real?"
"I don't know," Nyah admitted. "But it's something."
Amaya stared out at the water, jaw tight. "And you thinking about it."
"I'm always thinking about leaving," Nyah said quietly. "This just… gave it a shape." Amaya didn't look at her. "You going to apply?"
Nyah hesitated. The answer was already there, lodged in her chest. "Yes." The word felt like betrayal.
Amaya nodded once. "Okay."
Nyah turned sharply. "That's it?"
"What you want me to say?" Amaya asked, finally meeting her gaze. Her eyes were bright not angry, just painfully honest. "Don't go? Stay miserable? Pretend this don't matter?"
Nyah's throat burned. "I don't want to lose you." Amaya's voice softened. "You don't lose people by wanting more. You lose them by disappearing without saying why." Nyah reached for her hand without thinking. Amaya let her. They sat like that, fingers intertwined, watching waves crash against concrete. That night, Nyah emailed the address on the card. Her message was simple, honest and Too honest, maybe. I have never skated on real ice. I am seventeen years old. I know the sport deeply, and I am willing to work harder than anyone else. I am from Guyana. I don't know if this is impossible. I just know I can't stop trying.
She stared at the screen for a long time before hitting send. Once it was gone, panic surged. Her heart raced. Her hands trembled.
She paced the room, breath shallow, every worst-case scenario flashing through her mind. They'll laugh. They won't reply.
You've embarrassed yourself. She collapsed onto the bed, pressing her face into the pillow. "I didn't think this through," she whispered.
But she had. For years.
The reply came three days later. Nyah was at work when her phone buzzed. She almost ignored it. Almost. Her hands shook as she read. Thank you for your honesty. Late is not impossible. Unusual, yes. We would need to assess potential. That would require you to be here. Her vision blurred. She reread the message again and again, chest tight, breath uneven. To be here.
Canada wasn't hypothetical anymore. It was asking her to show up. That night, she sat on the floor, notebook open, money stacked beside her. She did the math again. It still didn't work. Her chest sank. Then another thought surfaced sharp, terrifying, undeniable. If I don't try, this will haunt me forever. Nyah closed the notebook slowly. The opportunity didn't feel like hope. It felt like a blade and she had just wrapped her hand around it.
Nyah didn't sleep that night. She lay on her back, eyes open, listening to the house breathe around her the distant hum of the refrigerator, the uneven rhythm of her father's snoring through thin walls, the fan clicking like it was running out of patience. Her phone sat face-down on the floor. The email replayed itself anyway.
We would need you to be here. Her chest felt bruised from the inside.
The next morning, she moved like a ghost. She burned toast. Forgot her bag. Walked halfway to work before realizing she'd left her phone behind. Each mistake stacked on the last until her head buzzed with static.
At the shop, Amaya watched her closely.
"You sick?" she asked.
Nyah shook her head. "Just tired."
"That tired don't look normal." Nyah didn't answer. Her body went through the motions wipe, stock, ring up but her mind stayed somewhere colder. Somewhere white and vast and terrifying. During break, she sat on the floor of the storage room, back against the wall, knees drawn up. If I go…
Her parents' faces surfaced first. Her mother's tight mouth. Her father's disappointment, heavy and quiet. If I stay…
The image that followed hurt worse: herself at thirty, still skating only in her head, bitterness settled deep in her bones. Her breathing quickened. She pressed her fingers into her palm until the sting cut through the spiral. Telling her parents waited like a storm cloud she couldn't outrun. It happened three nights later, unplanned, dragged into the open by her mother's questions.
"You been distracted," Marcia said, folding laundry. "Work too much? School not enough?" Nyah stood in the doorway, heart pounding so hard it made her ears ring. "There's something I need to tell you."
Her mother paused, sensing the shift. "What?"
Nyah swallowed. "I might have a chance to go abroad."
Silence dropped hard. Her father looked up slowly. "For what?"
Nyah's throat tightened. "Training." Marcia's eyes sharpened. "Training in what?" This was it. The blade part.
"Ice skating." The words fell and shattered.
Her mother laughed once, sharp and disbelieving. "You joking."
"I'm not.". Her father sighed, rubbing his face. "Nyah. We talked about this."
"There's no ice here," Marcia said. "So now you want to run away?"
"I'm not running," Nyah said, voice shaking despite her effort. "I'm trying."
"Trying what?" her mother snapped. "A fantasy?"
Something broke open in Nyah's chest.
"This isn't a phase," she said. "It never was."
Her father stood. "You eighteen years old. Too old to be chasing nonsense." The word hit harder than she expected.
Nonsense. Nyah felt heat flood her face, vision blurring. "You don't get to decide that."
Marcia's voice rose. "We fed you. We raised you. And now you want to waste your life on …."
"On something that keeps me alive," Nyah cut in. The room went still.
Her mother stared at her. "What you mean by that?"
Nyah's mouth opened. Nothing came out.
Her father spoke quietly. "You going?"
Nyah nodded once. "I don't know how yet," she said. "But yes."
Marcia turned away, folding laundry with unnecessary force. "Then don't expect help." The words landed clean and final.
Nyah felt herself shrink. "I wasn't asking," she said, barely audible. She left the house before she started crying.
The air outside felt too thin. She walked without direction, tears spilling freely now, unchecked. By the time she reached the seawall, Amaya was already there, sitting on the concrete, legs dangling over the edge. Nyah didn't ask how she knew. She dropped beside her, shoulders shaking. Amaya said nothing. Just leaned closer.
Nyah pressed her face into Amaya's shoulder, sobs tearing out of her like something feral.
"They think I'm stupid," Nyah choked. "They think I'm throwing my life away." Amaya's hand rubbed slow circles against her back. "You're not."
"I'm scared," Nyah whispered. "What if they're right?"
Amaya pulled back just enough to look at her. "Then you'll be wrong somewhere new. And at least you'll know."
Nyah laughed weakly through tears. "You make it sound easy."
"It's not," Amaya said. "But staying isn't either."
They sat there until Nyah's breathing steadied. Later that night, alone again, the darker thoughts crept closer. You're selfish. You're ungrateful. You don't deserve this chance. She sat on the floor, back against her bed, nails digging into her arms. You could stop. The thought slithered in, familiar and dangerous. She closed her eyes hard. "No," she said aloud, voice trembling. "Not now." She stood, shaky but determined, and practiced anyway bare feet on concrete, body tracing movements only she could see.
Each step hurt. Each step grounded her. She emailed the program again before fear could talk her out of it. I want to try. I don't have much. But I'm willing to give everything. When she hit send, her hands went numb. This wasn't hope anymore. This was commitment. And commitment, she was learning, demanded blood.
The reply came faster than Nyah expected. Too fast. She was brushing her teeth when her phone vibrated on the sink, the sound sharp in the quiet bathroom. She stared at the screen like it might bite her.
She almost didn't open it.
Almost.
If you are serious, we would need you here within three months. Assessment slots are limited. Funding assistance is possible but not guaranteed.
Three months.
Nyah's stomach dropped. She sat on the edge of the tub, phone clutched in her hand, toothpaste forgotten. Three months was nothing. Three months was a blink. Three months was cruel. Her mind started racing instantly passports, flights, visas, money she didn't have, a body that had never touched real ice. The room tilted. She pressed her forehead to her knees, breathing hard. This is too much. Three months turned everything urgent. Her savings suddenly looked small and embarrassing. Every expense felt like sabotage. She stopped buying snacks, skipped bus rides when she could walk, turned down anything that cost even a little extra. Hunger became background noise.
Fatigue followed close behind.
At work, she picked up extra shifts. At school, her focus slipped. Teachers noticed. One pulled her aside, concern creasing his face.
"You all right?" he asked.
Nyah nodded automatically. "Just busy."
Busy felt safer than honest. Amaya watched her burn down.
"You can't keep doing this," she said one night, sitting on Nyah's bed while Nyah stretched her knee gingerly.
"I have to."
"You don't," Amaya snapped, then softened immediately. "Not like this."
Nyah didn't look up. "Time doesn't care."
Amaya sighed. "Neither does your body."
Nyah's hands stilled. That was the thing she refused to think about. The first panic attack hit her on a Tuesday afternoon. She was walking home when the air suddenly felt wrong too thick, too heavy. Her heart started racing for no reason. Her vision tunneled. She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk, hands shaking violently.
You can't do this. You're not built for this. Her breath came in sharp gasps. She crouched, head between her knees, ignoring the curious looks from passersby. Focus, she told herself. Five things you can see.
Cracked pavement. A plastic bag caught in a fence. A stray dog watching her warily. Her own hands. The sky, too bright.
The panic ebbed slowly, leaving her drained and humiliated. She walked the rest of the way home on shaking legs. At night, the thoughts turned darker again. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just persistent.
If you fail, you'll prove them right. If you don't go, you'll never forgive yourself. If you go and break… She didn't finish that one. She sat on the floor, back against the bed, hugging her knees, rocking slightly. Ice appeared in her mind but now it wasn't empty. Shadows lined the boards, faceless and watching.
She skated anyway. Her movements weren't clean tonight. They were desperate. Ragged at the edges. Still, she didn't stop.
The argument with her parents came again, sharper this time.
"You killing yourself for nothing," Marcia said, watching Nyah limp slightly as she crossed the room.
"It's not nothing."
"You not even on real ice!"
"Yet."
Her father shook his head. "You going to embarrass yourself."
Nyah froze. That word again. Embarrass.
She felt something go cold inside her.
"I would rather be embarrassed than empty," she said quietly.
Her father looked away. That hurt more than yelling would have.
Amaya became her anchor and her mirror. She helped Nyah fill out forms, sat beside her while she practiced interviews out loud, corrected her posture when she drifted unconsciously into bad habits.
But sometimes Amaya just watched her with worry she didn't try to hide.
"You scared?" Amaya asked one night.
Nyah nodded. "All the time."
"You still going?"
"Yes."
Amaya smiled sadly. "Then that's courage. Not the fearless kind. The stubborn kind." Nyah leaned her head against Amaya's shoulder. "I don't know who I'll be if this doesn't work." Amaya's voice was steady. "You'll still be someone who tried." Nyah closed her eyes. She wanted to believe that would be enough. Two weeks before the deadline, the email came. Assessment approved. Arrival date confirmed. Nyah read it three times. Her hands went numb.
This was no longer theoretical. No longer distant. It was happening whether she felt ready or not. She looked around her room ,the peeling paint, the familiar cracks, the space that had held both her worst nights and her survival. Leaving meant ripping herself out by the roots. Staying meant withering where she stood.
She sat down on the floor and let herself cry quietly, fully, without shame. When the tears stopped, she wiped her face and stood.
Her knee ached. Her chest felt bruised. Her mind was loud with fear. She practiced anyway. Because wanting had already taken its pound of flesh and stopping now would cost her more than she was willing to pay.