Wednesday afternoon finds me sitting on the floor of our dorm bathroom with my phone pressed to my ear, and if this isn't rock bottom, I really don't want to see what is.
The tile is cold against my back and my voice keeps breaking in ways that would be embarrassing if I had any dignity left to lose, which I absolutely do not.
"I don't know what to do," I say, and the words come out sounding like someone's strangling a cat. Highly unattractive, really. Dad deserves better than listening to his daughter have a breakdown via phone, but here we are.
"Hey, hey, it's okay." Dad’s voice is gentle in that specific way that makes me want to cry harder, which seems counterproductive to the whole calming-down process. "Take a breath. Tell me what happened."
I press my forehead against my knees and try to breathe like a normal person instead of someone auditioning for a role in a melodrama about competitive figure skating and catastrophic life choices.
"Emily and I had a fight.” I choke out. “A bad one. Victoria offered me a transfer spot at another program and I told Emily maybe we're too tangled up. Maybe transferring would be for the best."
"Okay." David doesn't sound shocked, which is either very diplomatic or means I'm that predictable. Probably both. "And how do you feel about that now?"
"Like I want to throw myself into traffic, but that would be bad for my ankle recovery." The bathroom door is locked but I lower my voice anyway because our dorm walls are approximately as thick as tissue paper.
"Coach pulled her aside yesterday and said Emily's distracted. Her performance is suffering and it's because of me. Because of us. Because I'm apparently a walking relationship disaster who ruins everything I touch." Which feels like too much to admit out loud, but it’s already said.
"Maddie, you're under tremendous pressure," Dad says, and I can hear him shifting around like he's settling in for a proper conversation.
"Maybe you need some space to think clearly. Some distance from all the emotions."
I laugh, but it comes out bitter and broken. "Yeah, because distance has worked out so well for us historically. Remember when we moved away and I wrote Emily all those letters she never answered? Great times. Really fond memories."
"That's not what I mean." His voice stays patient even though I'm being difficult, which is very on-brand for Dad. "Come home for a few days. Not to make decisions, just to breathe. Get away from campus, from practice, from everything. Just think."
The suggestion makes my chest tighten because it sounds too much like giving up, like admitting I can't handle my own life without running home to my family. "I don't know if that's a good idea."
"Maddie, that hesitation is exactly why you need space." Dad’s voice gets firmer, more insistent.
"You're drowning in everyone's expectations and emotions, and you can't figure out what you actually want because you're too busy trying to manage everyone else's feelings. Come home. We'll support whatever you decide, but you need to choose for yourself. Not for Emily, not for Coach, not for anyone else." The words are final.
I sit there on the cold bathroom floor with my phone and my crisis, and some part of me knows he's right.
I can't think clearly when Emily's looking at me with those wounded eyes, when Coach is monitoring my every move, when the entire team is watching to see if we'll implode spectacularly or just fade quietly into irrelevance. "Okay. I'll come home for a few days."
"Good." I can hear the relief in David's voice. "Text me when you know what time you're leaving. I'll make sure your mother has your room ready."
After we hang up, I sit there for another ten minutes staring at the bathroom tiles like they might spontaneously arrange themselves into helpful life advice. They don't.
I finally drag myself up and unlock the door, and Emily's not in the room, which feels like a small mercy the universe has decided to grant me.
Thursday morning happens too early and too bright, like mornings do when you've spent the night staring at the ceiling contemplating your life choices.
I pull my duffel bag from under the bed and start packing mechanically: clothes, toiletries, phone charger, the basic survival kit for running away from your problems while calling it space to think.
I'm folding a sweater when Emily stirs, and my stomach drops somewhere around my ankles. She sits up slowly, her hair messy from sleep, and looks at the bag in my hands with an expression that makes my chest hurt. "What are you doing?"
"I'm going to my parents' house for a few days." I keep folding the sweater even though it's already folded, just to have something to do with my hands. "I need some space."
Emily's face goes very still, and I watch her process the words like someone translating a foreign language in real time. "Are we breaking up?"
The question hangs in the air between us, and I want to say no immediately, want to drop the bag and crawl back into bed with her and pretend everything's fine.
But everything's not fine, and I don't know how to fix it when I can't even figure out what I want. "I don't know. I just need time to think. Away from here. Away from everything."
"Away from me." It's not a question, and the way she says it makes something crack inside my chest.
"I'm not making any decisions right now," I say, which is technically true even though it feels like a lie.
"I just need space to figure things out without everyone's emotions clouding my judgment. Coach thinks I'm dragging you down. Victoria thinks I should transfer.”
I take a deep, exhausted breath. “You think we should fight the system together. And I don't know what I think because I can't hear myself over everyone else."
Emily doesn't say anything. She just sits there on the bed with her hands clenched in the blankets, and I can see her trying to hold herself together, trying not to ask me to stay.
I zip the duffel bag and pick it up, the weight feeling heavier than it should. At the doorway, I turn back one more time.
Emily hasn't moved. She's still sitting there, hands fisted in the sheets, and her face is doing that thing where she's fighting tears and trying to look strong at the same time.
I almost drop the bag. Almost walk back over and tell her I'm sorry, that I'll stay, that we'll figure it out together.
But then I remember Coach's words about Emily being distracted, Dad’s words about needing to choose for myself, and I force myself to turn away.
Force my feet to move through the doorway, down the hall, out of the building. I don't look back again.