I Chose Myself, Again and Again

Chapter 1

During rush hour after work, the subway was packed like sardines in a can.

Wedged into a corner by the crowd, I mindlessly scrolled through my phone to kill time.

A trending headline caught my eye.

[World Championship Pair Skating Champions Crowned! Golden Couple Shatters All-Time Record!]

I tapped the video. On the ice, a man in a deep blue costume executed perfect lifts, throw jumps, and spins, each movement crisp and flawless.

As he took his bow, he carried himself with the grace and elegance of nobility.

Beside him, his partner Emily Sinclair clung to his arm as they exchanged adoring smiles.

I couldn't tear my eyes from his face on the screen.

Lucas Lane.

Seven years later, and still just as handsome.

My phone buzzed with a message from a former teammate.

"Seen the trending news? Evil really does live forever. If it weren't for what they did back then, that podium would've been yours!"

I didn't bother replying.

The video continued auto-playing, switching to the post-competition interview.

A reporter asked about the secret to his success.

He flashed that perfect smile: "I owe everything to my partner, my coaching team, and everyone who's supported me along the way."

The subway announcement jolted me back to reality. I pocketed my phone as the crowd swept me toward the exit.

Outside the station, the night air slipped under my collar with a biting chill.

I glanced down at my ankle.

The scars from six surgeries lay hidden beneath my sock, still aching on rainy days—forget about ever skating again.

How could I not feel the sting of regret?

My parents were both retired figure skaters who had narrowly missed the World Championship podium in their prime.

I was their unfulfilled dream, their second chance at glory.

While pregnant with me, my mother watched competition videos daily, calling it "prenatal education."

By two, I was doing anti-dizziness training; by three, I was on the ice. The rink became my home.

Six hours on ice daily, plus posture classes, dance lessons, and brutal conditioning sessions.

All because "athletes must maintain their weight."

After turning nine, dinner became a foreign concept.

On nights when hunger cramped my stomach, I'd gulp down water to trick my body.

The brutal training regimen often reduced me to tears.

And whenever that happened, my mother's hand would crack across my face.

"What are you crying for? Save those tears for when you lose at competition—then you'll have something real to cry about!"

Then came the extra practice.

Practicing until the rink closed, until the lights died one by one, until my ragged breathing was the only sound echoing through the empty venue.

Eventually, some parents who couldn't stomach it anymore reported her for child abuse.

When investigators came, I smiled and told them everything was voluntary.

I wasn't lying—I genuinely wanted to win.

As a child, I didn't grasp the concept of dreams.

But after endless days of training…

My dream crystallized: to represent my country, to stand atop that highest podium.

For this, I would sacrifice anything—every drop of sweat, every tear, every ounce of effort.

Unfortunately, that path was severed seven years ago.

Now he stands on that highest podium, while I'm left at a subway exit, shivering in the cold.

Late that night, my phone rang again.

A familiar number lit up my screen.

I stared at it, letting it ring.

The ringtone persisted stubbornly before finally giving up.

At eleven, freshly showered and in bed, his call came through again.

This time I picked up.

"Sophia. Did you watch the competition?"

I made a noncommittal sound.

He pressed on.

"Sophia, I regret everything. Let's open an ice rink together, teach kids to skate. We can start over. What do you say?"

Outside my window, a car passed by, its headlights briefly illuminating my ceiling before vanishing.

My mind flashed back to those 5 a.m. training sessions.

Jump, fall, get up, jump again.

Knees bleeding through hastily wrapped gauze as I continued to practice.

Ankles so swollen they barely fit in skates, numbed with injections just so I could continue.

Over a decade of sweat, tears, and scars—all for nothing.

And now he was asking if I wanted to start over?

How fucking ridiculous.

I hung up and tossed my phone aside.

I raised my wrist, watching the faint pink scar catch the light.

Time is the best medicine.

The pain and bitterness of the past have healed along with this scar.

I don't need him. I've saved myself a thousand times before, and I'll save myself a thousand times again. Without hesitation.