Zenobia

Name: Zenobia Christine Winters, L.M.H.C Pronunciation: zeh-NOH-bee-uh kriss-TEEN WIN-terz Nickname(s): Z, Bia, Nobie (by younger siblings only) Birthday: October 2nd Age: 31 Zodiac Sign: Libra Sun, Virgo Moon, Scorpio Rising Gender: Cis-Female Pronouns: She/Her Species: Witch Orientation: Lesbian Occupation: Expressive Arts Therapist Faceclaim: Margot Robbie

HEADCANONS

She went to Northknot University after high school but switched to online school after qualifying for the Olympics. It took her five years to graduate with her Bachelor's in Physics because she was going at her own pace.

When she moved back to Northknot almost four years ago, she adopted a dog named Bandit.

She can speak English, French and Spanish fluently.

Zenobia likes to do yoga and attend art classes on her off days.

She has a tattoo of the Olympic rings behind her ear.

She still ice skates but it's mostly for fun or to de-stress.

She’s had two failed engagements: one with Addison Blake and one with Lauren Solace.

Her mother often calls her by her middle name, Christine.

Zenobia has a hidden talent for writing poetry, which she uses as a way to process her emotions and experiences. She keeps a journal filled with her poems, often writing about her travels, the people she meets, and her reflections on life.

Having traveled extensively, she has developed a passion for cooking dishes from different cultures. She often hosts dinner parties where she prepares meals from various countries, sharing her experiences and stories with friends and family.

She collects unique antiques and artifacts from her travels. Each piece has a story and serves as a reminder of her adventures and the places she’s visited.

To balance the demands of her career and personal life, she occasionally retreats to meditation centers. These retreats help her reconnect with herself and maintain her inner peace amidst the chaos.

Zenobia has a knack for painting, particularly landscapes and abstract art. She finds painting therapeutic and often creates pieces inspired by her personal experiences.

She is involved in various philanthropic efforts, particularly those related to education and healthcare. She believes in giving back to the communities that have supported her and often participates in charity events and fundraisers.

She has a deep love for literature and keeps a collection of books from various genres. She enjoys discussing books with friends and often joins book clubs or literary discussions.

She keeps detailed travel journals where she documents not just the places she visits but also the people she meets and the lessons she learns. These journals are cherished and sometimes turned into stories or articles.

APPEARANCE

Zenobia carries herself with an inherent grace honed from years on the ice, standing at an elegant height with a captivating, soothing presence. Her flowing hair often cascades in gentle waves, reflecting her artistic flair. While she usually dresses professionally, subtle hints of her creativity are evident in her choice of accessories or the occasional paint splash on her blouse. Off duty, she opts for comfort and casual style, often wearing well-worn jeans with colorful paint stains or a cozy sweater featuring abstract designs. Her movements are fluid and purposeful, a testament to her figure skating background, yet she carries a quiet humility in her demeanor. Her eyes, observant and thoughtful, reveal a depth of emotion and a hint of wistfulness. A tattoo of the Olympic rings peeks from behind her ear, subtly reminding her of past triumphs and struggles. Zenobia’s overall style blends refined elegance with artistic whimsy, capturing the multifaceted essence of her personality and life journey.

PERSONALITY

Zenobia is a radiant soul, someone whose warmth and optimism naturally draw others in. She carries herself with the quiet grace of a seasoned skater—fluid, deliberate, and effortlessly composed. Her heart is vast, full of love she readily gives, but it's also been tested, shaped by loss and hardship. A natural nurturer, she’s patient and kind, always willing to lend an ear or offer comfort, yet beneath her soft-spoken demeanor lies an iron will. Zenobia is stubborn in the way only a survivor can be, refusing to let her past define her. Though she presents herself as endlessly hopeful, there are cracks beneath the surface—deep wounds that only a few truly see. She loves deeply, fights fiercely for those she cares about, and believes in second chances, even when it costs her. Art and movement are her lifelines, her way of processing the emotions she keeps locked away. And while she may seem like an open book, the truth is, there are entire chapters she keeps to herself, revealing them only to those who have earned her trust.

AESTHETIC

paint splashes on your jeans - cozy reading nooks and serene landscapes - a stack of mental health books on the counter - soft pastels and watercolors - illegible scribbles on a notepad - gentle waves and ripples - metal skates scraping the ice - antique paintings and old books - a hopeless romantic

CONNECTIONS

Siblings (0/3) (Elowen, Drusilla, Atlas, & Perseis) Two are older and two are younger. They grew up in a stable, happy home. Their father was a dentist and their mother was a stay at home mom. The older one sometimes butted heads with their parents but it was all out of love.

The Skeptic Someone who doesn’t buy into Zenobia’s positivity and optimism, either because they don’t believe in it themselves or because they think it’s a front. They might push her to be more honest about her struggles or challenge the way she views the world.

Future Love Interest (Isla) They could’ve just met or have know each other for awhile now. It’s a slow burn relationship. Maybe they’re friends first who fall in love but are afraid to confess their feelings for one another?

Fellow Artist in Healing Another creative soul who understands the power of art as a form of expression and therapy. Whether they’re a fellow therapist, a musician, or a painter, they share a mutual appreciation for using creativity to help others and may even collaborate with her in sessions.

Old Friend They knew Zenobia before she left Northknot. They saw the bright-eyed skater with big dreams and have now returned to find her changed. They want to understand what happened, why she left, and where the pieces of the girl they once knew have gone.

BIOGRAPHY

tw: domestic violence, depression, death, suicidal ideation

Zenobia was born to Timothy & Kimberly Winters on a cold October morning in Northknot. She was born third out of five kids. They grew up in a stable, happy home. Their father was a dentist and their mother a stay-at-home mom. Although their father worked long hours to provide for the family, he and their mother tried their hardest to be attentive, supportive, and loving parents. Zenobia felt the love that her family had to offer and liked to give that love to others who didn't necessarily get it from home.

She found her love for the ice when she was only five years old. She'd go out skating with her father on his off days. Zenobia turned out to be really good at it and would go on to skate competitively as a teenager. That's where she met her best friend and then rival, Grace. They'd stay out late together practicing on the ice at all times of the hour as kids. They both genuinely loved skating and while trying to outdo one another, they became really good friends.

It’s your place in the world; it’s your life. Go on and do all you can with it, and make it the life you want to live.

Zenobia was pretty good in school but her main focus was skating. She averaged a B in most of her classes but that was because she would rush through her work to get back out on the ice. All of her work on the ice paid off, when she was nineteen, she and her best friend had the opportunity to try out for the 2014 Winter Olympics. At the qualifiers, she watched Grace collapse on the ice and was rushed to the hospital while Zenobia ended up qualifying for the Olympics.

She almost didn't go because she felt guilty about Grace's injury. She thought that Grace should've been the one going to the Olympics and not her. Zenobia thought she should've intervened when Grace first told her about her injury and maybe they would've gone to the Olympics together. At the Olympics, she placed third overall, receiving a Bronze medal. After the Olympics, Zenobia continued to skate competitively but it wasn't the same without Grace.

In all the world, there is no heart for me like yours. In all the world, there is no love for you like mine.

Zenobia loved and loved hard. When she fell in love for the first time that summer after the Olympics, she knew that Addison was the person she wanted to spend the rest of life with. That's probably why she stayed in the relationship for so long although it wasn't good for her. Addison cheated on her and would manipulate her into believing her lies. When they broke up in 2017, Zenobia wanted to flee the entire country. It was hard for her to lose the person she thought she was going to spend her life with.

When Addison was murdered in 2018, Zenobia spiraled into a depression. She'd quit figure skating and left home with intentions of never coming back. She thought about taking her own life at a point and when it got that bad, she sought out help. She was in therapy for two years before deciding she wanted to go back to school to become a therapist herself. She got her master's degree in counselling and while in school, she met someone new, Lauren Solace. Lauren was fresh out of graduate school with her degree in Political Science when they met.

We break ourselves to fit better into all the wrong hearts.

Zenobia's and Lauren's relationship happened really fast. They were dating one day and the next moving in together. That should've been the first red flag but Zenobia looked past it. She just figured they were madly in love. Lauren proposed to Zenobia a few months into their relationship. They were engaged for a year before things started to get bad. Lauren would physically, mentally and emotionally abuse Zenobia. When Zenobia tried to leave, Lauren would get aggressive and often threaten to kill herself because she knew Zenobia had a hard time losing her ex.

“The footage confirms the assault, including the sexual assault portion—” The room stopped. Not literally. The clock still ticked. The refrigerator still hummed. A car passed outside. But something inside Zenobia went completely silent. The detective said it. The words she had avoided. The words everyone around her had carefully danced around for months. The older detective’s eyes widened slightly. “Detective—” The younger man froze, finally realizing. Zenobia didn’t move. Didn’t blink. Didn’t breathe. She just stared ahead for a few seconds, then, slowly, she nodded. “Yes.” The word was quiet. Almost polite. Like she was confirming the weather. “Yes, that is true.” The older detective watched her carefully, like he knew the calmness wasn’t relief. It was something else. “Ms. Wint—”

“I’m aware of what happened,” she interrupted gently, still composed. Her voice was steady. Too steady. “I understand what the footage shows.” The younger detective looked uncomfortable, guilt flickering across his face. “I apologize. I should have been more careful.” Zenobia gave him the small, practiced smile she gave everyone when she wanted them to stop worrying about her. It was almost kind. Almost. “It’s alright.” It wasn’t. Everyone in the room knew it wasn’t. But nobody challenged her. The older detective shifted slightly. “The prosecution is moving forward. Given the evidence, they believe they have a strong case. We wanted to ask whether you would be willing to provide a formal victim impact statement and discuss potential testimony.” Testimony. A courtroom. A room full of strangers. Saying it. Out loud. Zenobia looked down at her hands. Her nails had grown back since January. New. Smooth. Replaced. Her body had healed. Proof that her body had moved on from that night even when she didn’t know how to. “I would need to think about that.”

“That’s completely understandable.” The detective assured her she had time, that she had support, that she could make the decision when she was ready. Then he asked, “Do you feel safe continuing this process?” The question almost made her laugh. Not because it was funny. Because she had spent six months convincing everyone she was. “I feel capable,” she responded. It was not the same answer. The detective noticed. But he only nodded. After another few minutes, after paperwork and explanations and gentle reminders that she could reach out, Zenobia walked them to the door. She thanked them. She smiled. She wished them a good afternoon. She did everything right. She closed the door. The lock clicked. And for several seconds, Zenobia remained standing there with her hand still on the knob. Perfectly still. Like if she didn’t move, nothing could change. That she could still keep everything contained. Then her fingers slipped. The strength left her body all at once. She stumbled back against the door, one hand pressing against her chest as her breathing turned uneven. As the control she had been holding onto for six months finally slipped finally broke.

Not a scream. Not dramatic. Just a small, shattered sound leaving her before she could stop it. A sound she would have hated anyone else hearing. Her knees gave out before she could stop them. She sank onto the floor, carefully even now, like some part of her was still trying not to make a mess. The tears came quietly at first, almost like her body was unsure if it was allowed. Six months. Six months of careful wording. Six months of saying “the incident”. Six months of removing herself from her own story. And all it took was one stranger saying the words she refused to touch. Her eyes burned. Her throat tightened. Her hand curled against the carpet as her breathing shook, the memories she had locked away pressing closer. Her body remembered before she could stop it, like something inside her had been waiting six months for permission to finally open the door. The footage. The office. The floor. The fear. The parts she had refused to acknowledge because acknowledging them meant admitting she had been hurt in ways she wasn’t ready to name.

The fluorescent hum of her workplace flickered behind her eyelids, too bright, too clean, the same sterile light that had felt normal once and now felt like it was watching her. The office wasn’t an office anymore in her mind, it was a narrowing space, walls too close, air too thin, the ordinary shape of it twisting into something unfamiliar and wrong, and she could feel her breath catch the way it had caught then, sharp and useless in her chest. The floor was a weight, an impact, as the sickening reality of Zenobia realizing there was no more control to be had, just gravity and resistance and her body’s desperate, instinctive refusal to accept what was happening. Her fingers curled against the carpet now as if she could still feel the texture of that moment beneath her palms, as if the present floor and that floor had collapsed into the same surface, and suddenly she was back there again with her face bloodied and her ribs screaming and her wrist twisted wrong and her body trying to become smaller than itself as her attacker had her pinned to her office floor.

Then the fear arrived fully, not as emotion but as intrusion, as something invading every system at once, flooding her nerves until everything was too loud and too close and too irreversible, the kind of fear that doesn’t sit in the chest so much as spreads through bone and muscle and memory, rewriting safety into something foreign she could no longer access. And underneath all of it, worse than the pain, worse than the soundless chaos of it, was the way her mind had split itself cleanly in two just to survive, one half screaming that something was wrong and the other half refusing to give it language, refusing to name it, refusing to let it become real enough to hold, because naming it meant admitting she had been hurt in ways she still could not bring herself to fully see, let alone say aloud. A sob finally escaped. Then another. And another. She didn’t know how long she stayed there. For the first time since January, Zenobia stopped trying to convince herself she was okay. She stopped trying to perform healing. She stopped trying to be the person everyone else needed her to be. She just sat there, crying on the floor of her own home, realizing that surviving something did not mean it stayed in the past.

Of what they’d failed to do.

The living room was dim except for the television, the 2026 Winter Olympics washing the walls in cold, clean light. Figure skating was on. Of course it was. Zenobia told herself she was watching for the artistry, for the sport, for the nostalgia, for the technical content and the transitions, and the way the commentators talked about edge work like it was prayer. She told herself a lot of things. Meanwhile, her paintbrush moved like it had its own heartbeat.

The canvas on the floor was… wrong. It wasn’t a landscape. It wasn’t a portrait. It wasn’t anything that could be politely titled and hung. It was motion without a face. Bodies without heads. A shoulder rendered too precisely. A hand, again and again, painted from memory in different angles: fingers curled, fingers spread, fingers pressing, fingers gripping. Smears of color like bruises, like fingerprints, like the idea of skin made into weather. She’d started with the intention of painting skaters, she swore she had. She’d meant to paint the way blades carved calligraphy into ice. But the longer she painted, the more the forms broke apart, as if her mind refused to let anything be whole.

Zenobia leaned back on her heels and stared at it, chest rising carefully. Her jaw twinged. Her wrist complained. She didn’t stop. “Okay,” she said out loud to the empty room, voice calm and even, like she was addressing a client. “We’re not doing this. We’re painting. We’re relaxing. We’re being normal. This is self-care. This is… expressive.” Her brush hovered. The television crowd roared, muffled and distant. A skater landed a jump cleanly, arms thrown open like an offering. Zenobia’s throat tightened.

The way his voice sharpened when she said the doctor wasn’t here.

The door slamming open.

The sound of her phone skidding across the floor.

Her brush jerked. Paint streaked where she hadn’t meant it to. She blinked hard and looked at the TV again, forcing her eyes to focus on the rink. On the boards. On the clean geometry of it. On the way the skater’s costume glittered under stadium lights like the world was kind. “Focus,” she whispered. “Focus, Z. It’s just skating.”

And then the broadcast cut to a slow-motion replay, the skater’s body rotating in the air, arms tight, legs crossed, and Zenobia’s brain did the thing it had been doing lately: it reached for a safer memory and accidentally grabbed a sharper one. Not the attack. The ice. The ice is supposed to be safe. The ice had always been safe.

The sound of her blades biting into it came back so vividly her fingers twitched. Her shoulders rolled. Her feet shifted on the hardwood like they were searching for edges that weren’t there. She stood without realizing she’d stood, brush still in hand, paint drying on the bristles. The television showed the rink from above, a perfect white rectangle. Zenobia’s living room became, for one reckless second, the same size.

The music starts.

Her heart is a metronome.

Zenobia’s thirteen and fearless and everything hurts in the good way.

Her fingers moved first. Small, almost unconscious gestures. A wrist curve. A hand slicing the air. Then her arms joined in, slow and controlled, like she was remembering a language she hadn’t spoken in years but still dreamed in. Her shoulders followed. Her spine. Her hips. Her feet began to trace patterns across the floor. At first it was only imagination, a ghost routine performed in socks. Then it wasn’t.

Zenobia turned, careful, jaw clenched, ribs tight. Her body protested and she ignored it with the same stubbornness she’d always used on the ice. She extended her arms, soft in the elbows, and the movement unlocked something inside her like a latch. The Olympics. 2014. Bronze. The roar of the crowd hit her like a wave.

She did it.

She actually did it.

She’s standing on the podium and the world is loud and bright and Grace is somewhere in the stands and Zenobia can’t find her and she can’t breathe and she’s smiling anyway because she’s supposed to.

Her throat tightened, and for a moment she was back there. Back in Sochi, Russia, on the ice. Back in that glittering, impossible moment where her whole life made sense because it had a score attached to it. She remembered the weight of the medal. The coldness of it against her skin. The way she’d touched the Olympic rings tattoo behind her ear later that night like she needed proof it was real. Then her mind did what it always did. It reached for Grace.

Grace collapsing at qualifiers.

Grace’s face, pale and stubborn, insisting she was fine.

Zenobia’s voice, too gentle, too trusting: “Okay. Okay, we can push through.”

The sound of her own skates scraping the ice while Grace was down.

The guilt like a second medal, heavier than bronze, never taken off.

Zenobia’s breath hitched. She stopped mid-step, arms still lifted, chest heaving carefully. The TV crowd cheered again. Another skater. Another clean landing. Another life continuing. Zenobia looked down at her hands, paint smeared across her fingers, and something in her expression shifted. Not panic. Not fear. Decision.

She set the brush down slowly, as if it might bite her. She walked to the entryway and opened the closet where her skates lived. She hadn’t touched them in weeks. Not since she’d gotten home. Not since the hospital. Not since the world had become a series of rooms she had to survive. Her fingers closed around the worn leather. Her jaw clenched. “Okay,” she whispered again. “Okay. Just… okay.”

She didn’t text anyone. She didn’t call Grace or give Theo a heads-up. She didn’t tell her family. She didn’t even tell herself it was a good idea. She just pulled on a coat, shoved her feet into boots, grabbed her skates, and stepped out into the winter night like she was walking into confession. The cold hit her instantly, sharp enough to steal breath, but her lungs held. Her ribs held. Her body, traitorous as it was, held.

The drive to the lake was quiet. The roads were empty. The world felt asleep in that deep winter way, snowbanks hunched like sleeping animals. Her headlights cut tunnels through the dark. She parked near a treeline where the snow was untouched, where no one would see her, where no one would ask questions. Zenobia walked out onto the frozen lake like she was stepping onto sacred ground.

The ice was thick, glazed with snow in places, bare in others. The moonlight turned it silver. The air smelled clean, brutally clean, like it had never known human hands. She sat on the bank, fingers stiff, and laced her skates. Her left wrist protested. She ignored it. Her jaw ached. She ignored it. Her ribs pulled when she bent. She ignored them too. When she stood, blades meeting ice, something in her chest loosened so suddenly she almost cried right there. Not because she was sad. Because she remembered. Because her body remembered who she had been before she became a patient.

Zenobia pushed off.

At first, she stayed small. Slow glides. Gentle edges. Testing. Listening. Feeling the way the ice responded to her weight like an old friend recognizing her name. She circled once. Twice. The sound of her blades was the only thing in the world. And then she began to skate like she meant it. She carved long, clean lines across the lake, arms open, breath steaming. She built speed. She let her knees bend. She let her hips settle. She let her body do what it had been trained to do for most of her life: translate emotion into movement.

The first time she tried a spin, it was shaky. Her balance was off. Her wrist screamed when she pulled her arms in too quickly. She stumbled out of it, breath sharp, laughing once under her breath like she couldn’t believe she’d dared. Then she tried again. This time it was cleaner. Not perfect. Not Olympic. But hers. The night held her. And then, without warning, it hit her. Not the attack, not exactly. The pressure. The sensation of being pinned. The memory of weight on her body.

Zenobia’s foot caught. Her blade skidded. She went down hard, landing on her knees and then her hands, pain shooting through her wrist like a warning flare. She sat back on her heels, breath ragged, staring at the ice beneath her as if it had betrayed her. Her hands were shaking. Her chest rose and fell too fast. She could feel the tears coming like a tide she couldn’t stop.

“No,” she said aloud, voice cracking in the cold. “No. Not here. Not now.” But the tears didn’t care. They spilled anyway, hot against her face, freezing at the edges. Her shoulders began to shake. She tried to swallow it down. She tried to do what she always did: straighten her spine, lift her chin, turn pain into something presentable. It didn’t work. The lake didn’t require presentation. The lake didn’t ask her to be okay. So she cried.

She cried until her jaw ached and her ribs burned and her throat felt raw. She cried for the attack without naming it, because naming it felt like giving it power. She cried for her first great loss, her ex, for the way that love had been a house with rotten beams. For the way Zenobia had believed, genuinely believed, that if she loved harder, Addison would’ve stopped running toward danger. She cried for the phone call in 2018, for the news that Addison was dead, for the way guilt had wrapped itself around her lungs and tightened until she thought she might disappear. She cried for the months she’d wanted to die and didn’t tell anyone because she’d been afraid they’d look at her differently, afraid they’d pity her, afraid they’d try to fix her like she was broken furniture.

She cried for Lauren too, for the rollercoaster she’d called passion because she hadn’t wanted to admit it was fear. For the threats. For the manipulation. For the way her ex-fiancée had made her feel like leaving would be murder. For the summer day in 2022 when she’d finally told Grace the truth, voice shaking, and Grace had come to Toronto like a rescue mission, hands steady, eyes furious, packing Zenobia’s life into boxes like she was saving her from a fire.

She cried for Grace collapsing at qualifiers. For the moment Zenobia had watched her best friend fall and thought, this is my fault. For the way she’d carried that guilt like a second skin all the way to the Olympics, all the way to bronze, all the way to a tattoo behind her ear that felt like both triumph and theft.

She cried for the nights she couldn’t sleep and ended up on the phone with Theo, voice low and scratchy in the dark, the two of them starting with laughter over the stupidest things, the kind of childhood stories that made her snort and hiss through her healing ribs, until it always turned into something softer. Real. Theo was the only person who could get her there without prying. And in those late hours, she admitted things she never said in daylight. She told him how she’s spent her entire life terrified of being a burden, terrified of needing too much, so she learned to need nothing at all. And then she cried for the guilt of that, too.

She cried for the blossoming love between her and Isla, too. For how soft it had been. How pure. How gentle. Like Isla had been holding something fragile with both hands and actually wanted to keep it safe. Zenobia had let herself believe in it, piece by piece, the way you believe in sunlight after a long winter. She cried for the way it had felt so right it scared her, for the sweetness of their almost-kisses and lingering looks and quiet patience, for the steady way Isla never pushed, never rushed, never asked for more than Zenobia was ready to give. And then she cried because Isla hadn’t gotten to keep that version of her. Isla had found her on the floor instead, broken and bloodied in fluorescent light, and Zenobia couldn’t stop thinking that the first real thing she’d allowed herself in years had been ruined before it even had a chance to become real.

She cried for the fact that she’d wasted so much time and energy being strong, and strength had never once prevented anything bad from happening.

She sat on the ice and let it all happen anyway. When she finally stood again, she was trembling. Her face was numb. Her hands were stiff. Her skates were dusted with snow. Zenobia wiped her cheeks with the back of her glove and inhaled slowly, forcing her lungs to obey. She looked up at the moon, eyes red, and whispered, “Okay. Okay. That’s enough.” Her voice sounded like someone else’s.

She skated back to shore, slower now, careful. Every push felt heavier. Every glide felt like she was dragging herself through water. By the time she unlaced her skates, her fingers barely worked. The drive home was silent. The radio stayed off. The world stayed dark. When she got inside, the house smelled like paint and cold air. The television was still on, muted now, the rink flashing across the screen like a memory she couldn’t turn off. Her canvas waited on the floor, still wrong, still unfinished, still full of hands.

Zenobia stood over it for a long moment, breathing hard. Then she walked to the kitchen, poured herself a glass of water she didn’t drink, and went to the small drawer where she kept her journals. She pulled out one that looked like all the others. She sat at the table. She opened it. And for the first time in weeks, she didn’t try to write something pretty. She wrote what her body had been screaming. Her pen moved fast, frantic, like it was trying to outrun her own denial. Tears fell again, quietly this time, slipping down her cheeks and splattering the page. She didn’t wipe them away. She let them stain the paper like proof. And as she wrote, the poem took shape. Not a confession. Not a report. Not a statement. A translation.

There is a room in my body where the door never closes.It swings with every footstep, every laugh too loud, every lock that turns, every man who stands too close and says my name like it belongs to him.

I tell everyone I’m fine the way you tell a child the thunder is friendly. I say it with a smile and a steady pulse and a jaw wired shut, as if silence is the same thing as peace.

I paint hands because hands are honest. They do not pretend. They do not apologize. They do not soften the story. They press. They take. They leave fingerprints in placesI will not name.

I skate on a lake and the ice remembers me. It holds me anyway. It does not ask for details. It does not ask if I fought. It does not ask why I froze. It only says: move.

There is a part of me still on that floor ,still reaching for my phone, still believing I can talk my way out of teeth. Still believing kindness is armor.

And there is another part behind glass, watching, quiet, unclaimed. She does not speak. She does not scream. She only blinks when I touch my hips in the shower and pretend I am washing away nothing.

I am still here somewhere. I am alive. I am alive. I am alive, and I do not know yet how to live in a body that became a crime scene.

The last line shook out of her like a sob. Zenobia’s hand froze over the page, pen hovering, ink bleeding slightly where her tears had soaked the paper. Her chest rose and fell, uneven. She stared at the poem like it had come from someone else. Like she’d found it on the floor and didn’t know who wrote it. Her breath hitched again. She pressed her palm over her mouth, jaw aching, and cried until the ache in her ribs returned and her eyes burned and her throat felt scraped raw. She cried until the house felt too quiet and the silence stopped being empty and started being heavy. She cried until the ink dried.

And then, because she was Zenobia and control was the only religion she still trusted, she wiped her face with her sleeve, took one slow breath, and closed the journal with both hands like sealing a coffin. The cover clicked shut. The room stayed still.

Zenobia sat there in the dim kitchen light, the Olympics flickering silently in the other room, and whispered to no one at all, “Okay.” Like if she said it softly enough, the world might believe her.