Chapter 2

Figure skating.

I lay in bed.

In my past life, I started learning to skate when I was a bit over six years old.

By eight or nine, I was already in formal training at a club in the United States.

Now I was almost ten.

If I still wanted to pursue that path, I was already starting late.

And would Dad even send me to learn?

In my past life, my stepfather loved winter sports and discovered my talent on his own.

But Dad?

Dad didn't even have time to share a weekend meal with me.

Would he be willing to drive me to the rink every week, pay expensive tuition, and hire coaches for me?

I didn't know.

But I knew one thing: Lily would pursue that path.

Sure enough, a few months later, Mom's social media started showing photos of Lily at the ice rink.

The first one showed Lily standing on the ice in rental skates.

I stared at that photo for a long time.

Everything was identical to the post Mom had made in my memories from my past life.

The script hadn't changed---only the protagonist had switched.

I closed my phone and shut my eyes.

There was an indescribable feeling in my chest---not jealousy, more like looking in a mirror and seeing someone else's reflection.

Over the next few years, Mom's social media became my main channel for following Lily's activities.

She updated frequently, posting videos or photos of Lily's training every two or three days.

At ten, she started practicing double jumps.

That same year, Mom posted a very long update saying that Lily had been noticed by a famous figure skating coach---a former Olympic medalist who was willing to take Lily as a student.

The accompanying photo showed Lily with the coach, both standing at the edge of the rink.

Lily wore training clothes, her face lit up with a brilliant smile.

I recognized that coach.

In my past life, he had been my coach too.

In that moment, my last shred of hope vanished.

Lily didn't just want to learn figure skating---she wanted to completely replicate the path I'd walked in my past life.

The same coach, the same club, the same training system, all pointing toward the same goal: Olympic gold.

She would succeed.

I thought.

And I needed to learn to say goodbye to my past life.

I needed to believe I had the ability to live in the present, not dwell on yesterday's regrets.

At ten, Lily won first place in the regional competition.

Mom posted a grid of nine photos, each one of Lily on the podium, holding the trophy, wearing the medal around her neck, smiling with bright eyes.

Dad happened to be home that day.

Seeing me with my phone, he casually asked, "What are you looking at?"

After Dad finished looking, he didn't say anything.

But after a while, I smelled the aroma of steak drifting from the kitchen.

It was my favorite dish.

That was just how Dad was.

He wouldn't say "Lily is amazing," nor would he say "if you want to learn something, I can send you too."

He would just silently cook a dish you loved, stewing all the words he couldn't speak into the meat.

I walked to the kitchen doorway and leaned against the frame, watching him.

"Dad," I said, "I don't envy Lily."

His hand paused while cutting scallions.

"I just think," I chose my words carefully, "she's doing well.

Really well."

Dad said "Mm" and continued cutting.

But I saw his shoulders relax slightly.

In the autumn of my tenth year, Dad brought home a woman.

It was a Saturday.

I sat on the living room sofa reading a book.

I heard the door lock turn but didn't look up, thinking Dad had come back from grocery shopping.

He occasionally cooked on weekends---surprisingly well, actually.

"This is my daughter." Dad's voice sounded tense.