The Unspoken Pass

Shadows of the Past

For now, though, Lizzie would push through the challenges of each day, fighting off the cold, the loneliness, and the judgments. She knew that every trial she overcame was another step towards the future she so desperately desired. And that kept her going, no matter how tough the journey became.

Lizzie sat at the back of the room, lost in the world of colors and brushes. Art class, the final period of the day, was her sanctuary. Though she was no Picasso, this space offered her a refuge from her harsh reality. Every brushstroke on the canvas was a testament to her pain, her struggles, and the little joys she managed to find in between. With each dab of paint, she poured out the anguish she felt, resulting in an artwork that was raw, honest, and deeply emotional.

Her art teacher, Mrs. Anderson, approached her, the soft soles of her shoes making no sound on the wooden floor. She laid a comforting hand on Lizzie's shoulder, taking in the profound piece in front of her. Mrs. Anderson, like most of the school staff, was aware of Lizzie's heart-wrenching circumstances. It wasn't uncommon for her or other teachers to discreetly slip Lizzie an extra snack, a few coins, or even just a kind word. While these gestures were small, they were monumental for Lizzie. They were reminders that in a world that often felt so cold and indifferent, there were still pockets of warmth and compassion.

Later that day, with school over, Lizzie began her arduous trek to the stadium. On days off from hockey practice, she taught skating lessons to young kids. The gig was unpaid, part of the agreement that allowed her to stay at the stadium. However, occasionally, a grateful parent would slip her a few bills, a gesture she greatly appreciated. Each bill, no matter how small, meant a little less hunger, a little more comfort.

On her way, she passed by what used to be her home. The decrepit building, now boarded up, stood as a haunting reminder of better days. Days when she had a roof she could call her own, days when laughter echoed through the halls. Now, it seemed like a ghost of its former self, distant and detached. Lizzie felt a pang in her chest as she stared at it. The memories associated with it felt surreal, like they belonged to another lifetime. It made her question the reality of it all - was that really her past, or just a mirage of a life she once dreamt of? The weight of nostalgia, combined with her ongoing hardships, brought a lump to her throat. She quickly wiped away a tear and continued on her way, each step heavy with the weight of her past and the uncertainty of her future.

"Imagine the ice beneath your skates as a vast, open sky. Each glide, each movement is like drawing in a refreshing, cool breath. I want all of you to breathe deeply, feel that invigorating chill fill your lungs, and then gently release it, letting it blend with the vastness around you."

Lizzie observed with a gentle gaze as the young skaters heeded her guidance. The majority of them were kids, eager to delve into the worlds of hockey or figure skating — worlds she was all too familiar with. Unlike the drill-sergeant style some instructors adopted, Lizzie's approach was rooted in tranquility and affirmation. She nurtured a space where every student felt seen and valued. In her lessons, mistakes weren't failures but fleeting moments of growth. Her unwavering encouragement lit a spark in them, fueling their drive to persevere and flourish on the ice.

As the session progressed, Lizzie effortlessly moved amongst the students, her skates gliding on the ice with a grace born from years of practice. "Remember, balance is key," she softly called out, extending an arm to demonstrate posture. A young boy, struggling with his footing, looked up to her, a mixture of frustration and determination in his eyes.

She skated over, kneeling down to his level. "Hey there, it's alright. The ice can be tricky, but I promise you'll get the hang of it." Lifting his chin gently with her finger, she said, "Look ahead, not at your feet. Trust them to know where to go."

The boy nodded, taking a deep breath, mimicking the breathing exercise she'd taught earlier. Slowly, with Lizzie's guidance, he began to find his rhythm, his small victories mirrored by the smiles and cheers of his fellow students.

With each interaction, Lizzie's experience shone through — not just in her technical knowledge, but in her innate ability to connect, uplift, and inspire. Every child left her class not just a better skater, but with a newfound confidence and love for the ice.

Lizzie lingered on the ice, her gaze tracking the last student until they disappeared from view. A profound sense of isolation washed over her, as though the world had been drained of all its color, leaving only her amidst the chilling vastness of the rink. The ice beneath her skates, previously alive with gleeful stumbles and laughter, was now just a cold expanse mirroring her solitude.

She inhaled deeply, seeking the familiar comfort of the chilled air, but the frosty bite did little to alleviate the pressure building inside her. The unexpected buzz of her phone was a jarring contrast to the heavy silence. She pulled it out hesitantly, only to be confronted by the grim reminder: "Phone bill overdue."

Her heart tightened, feeling as though it were encased in ice. The constant reminders of her precarious existence had become exhausting, threatening to overwhelm her spirit. Tears blurred her vision, a painful juxtaposition to the world she so loved, the world on the ice where she felt free.

But she wouldn't let this moment define her. She wouldn't let life's adversities drown her resilience. Pushing away the sting of tears, she shoved the phone back into her pocket, determination replacing despair. With every glide, every turn, every jump, she channeled her fears, frustrations, and pain into her skating. The rink became her sanctuary, the place where she rediscovered her strength and resolve. The weight of the world seemed to lighten with each stride until she felt nothing but the pure, invigorating exhaustion of release. Through it all, Lizzie remained unbroken, a testament to the indomitable spirit within her.

The evening still had a few hours to spare, with the clock merely hinting at seven. Yet, in the silence of her surroundings, with no distractions or companionship, slumber seemed to beckon more ardently. Every blink seemed to last a little longer, each breath drew her closer to the embrace of sleep. But not just yet. There was still a world to explore, even if it was only through the soft glow of her phone screen.

Lizzie mindlessly scrolled through her social media feed, letting the barrage of images and updates wash over her. But then a particular picture halted her drifting attention. It was Hope's former team, joyously crowning a new captain — Ava. A pang of curiosity stung Lizzie, leading her fingertips to Hope's profile. What did this short girl, seemingly upbeat girl indulge in during her free moments?

The virtual scroll painted a picture of a passionate baker. Delightful images of cakes, cookies, and other baked wonders filled the screen. As she scrolled further, a particular photo thumbnail caught her eye. It was Hope, smiling beside Ava. But when she tapped to view it, an error message popped up: "Can't pull up deleted photo." It must've been a recent removal, Lizzie pondered, considering she could still see the thumbnail. Not wanting to lose the only hint she had, she quickly screenshotted and zoomed in.

Did this photo hold the secret to Hope's sudden departure from the team? Did Ava's promotion to captain lead to Hope's demotion, causing a rift between the two?

Lost in these thoughts, Lizzie could feel her energy wane. Plugging her phone into its charger, she gently laid it face down on the cold floor. Pulling her bumblebee blanket around her and positioning her backpack as a makeshift pillow, she let sleep's soft call finally take her away.