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The noise.

My parents.

The rest of the world.

There is only the ice and me.

I skate.

I spin.

And for the first time in my life, something outside my family makes sense in a way I can feel deep in my bones.

It feels perfect.

I feel perfect.

When I finally stop, I glide back toward my parents.

Mom looks stunned, tears shining in her eyes. Dad looks as proud as I’ve ever seen him.

My breath escapes in little silver clouds.

And suddenly, I understand something.

Mom has fashion.

Dad has art.

My siblings have their dreams.

But this?

This belongs to me.

Mom kneels in front of me, brushing a strand of pale hair behind my ear.

“Do you want to skate, my heart?” she asks softly.

I shake my head.

Because that isn’t the right question.

“No?”

“No.” I glance at the ice, then back at my parents. “I want to fly.”

I look up at the moon.

Tonight, I’ve found my love for the ice.

But I’ve found something else, too.

The boy with the sad eyes.

Now

I met my other half the night Dr. Nudo called me a psychopath.