Burning Ice - Chapter 35: Chapter 35

The club is quieter than usual when I walk in, the kind of hush that only exists before the chaos of the night begins. The familiar scent of perfume, spilled whiskey, and warm stage lights lingers in the air, wrapping around me like a ghost of the past.
It doesn't feel real that this is my last day.
I take slow steps through the dressing room, the mirrors lined with bulbs casting a soft, golden glow over the space. The lockers, the worn-out velvet chairs, the racks of outfits I no longer have to squeeze into—it all feels different now, like I'm seeing it for the last time in a way I hadn't before.
I nod at a few of the girls already getting ready, exchanging small smiles and quick hugs as I gather the last of my things. A pair of heels I never want to wear again. My makeup bag. A hoodie I forgot in the back weeks ago.
"So, this is it?" Stasi leans against her station, arms crossed, her expression unreadable. She's always been the one who could see through me, even when I wasn't saying a word.
"This is it" I confirm, zipping my bag and slinging it over my shoulder.
She studies me for a long moment before exhaling sharply. "It's weird, you know? You not being here."
I offer a small smile. "I'll visit. You know that."
She rolls her eyes. "Yeah, yeah, you say that now. But once you get a taste of a normal life, you won't want to step foot in here again."
I don't argue, because maybe she's right. Maybe I won't. Maybe that part of my life is done, and I won't miss it the way I thought I would.
But I'll miss them. The people who made this place bearable.
I make my way toward the exit, pausing when I hear Tasha call after me.
"Billie."
I turn back.
She hesitates, then sighs. "You're good, right?"
I know what she's asking. The thing no one has dared to bring up since I came back to work after that night. The night everything changed.
I swallow, nodding once. "Yeah. I'm good."
She doesn't look convinced, but she lets it go, just like everyone else has. Because that's the thing about places like this, no one pries, no one digs too deep. We all have our own ghosts.
With one last glance at the club that's been my world for far too long, I push through the doors and step out into the cool evening air, letting the past settle behind me.
Wherever I'm going next, I know one thing for sure.
It won't be back here.
The evening air is crisp against my skin as I step outside, my bag slung over my shoulder, the weight of the past pressing against me as I take a deep breath. Six months. That's all it's been. Six months since everything changed. Since he changed everything.
It doesn't feel like six months. It feels like a lifetime.
I think back to the girl I was when I first met Nate—the girl who felt defensive, who did what she had to do to survive, who convinced herself that wanting more was dangerous, that love was just another trap. I barely recognize her now.
Because of him.
Because of Nate, I learned what it meant to let someone in, even when it scared me. I learned that love doesn't always come softly but it crashes, it collides, it knocks the air from your lungs. And when it's real, it changes you.
Because of Nate, I stopped running. Stopped believing I had to do everything on my own.
Because of Nate, I know what it means to live.
I blink against the sting in my eyes, swallowing hard. I don't regret a single moment of it, even the hardest parts. Even the nights I stayed awake, terrified of what was coming next.
I don't know what's ahead for me. I don't know what's waiting beyond this moment, beyond this choice to leave behind everything I've known.
But I do know this, I'm better for having known him. For having loved him.
And for that, I'll always be grateful.
I never saw myself as the kind of person who went to college. School was for people who had plans, who had a future already mapped out for them. I was never one of those people. I barely made it through high school, and after that, life moved too fast for me to stop and wonder if I was smart enough for anything more.
But here I am. Enrolled in online classes.
I don't even know what I want to do yet. I picked a few general courses, things that sounded interesting but not too intimidating. Maybe I'll figure it out along the way. Maybe I won't. But for the first time in my life, I'm giving myself the chance to try.
And I know Nate would've wanted that.
I can hear his voice in my head, that stubborn, unshakable belief he always had in me, even when I couldn't see it for myself. You're more than this, Billie. You're capable of more than you think.
He used to push me, sometimes in ways that frustrated me, but never in a way that felt like pressure. He just knew—knew I was meant for more than just getting by, more than just surviving.
So, I'm doing this. For me. But also for him.
Because if he were here, he'd be the first one telling me I could. And for once, I'm starting to believe he might've been right.
Losing Nate feels different than losing my mom. Not because one mattered more than the other, but because love—grief—comes in different forms.
My mom was my whole world for as long as I can remember. She was my first love, the person who held me through nightmares, who made me believe in magic when life felt anything but kind. Losing her was like losing a part of myself, a part I could never get back. It was slow and cruel, a grief that settled into my bones and never really left. I had time to prepare, but it didn't make it hurt any less. It just made me aware of every moment slipping away before she was even gone.
But Nate? Losing him was sudden, brutal, like the universe reached inside my chest and ripped something out before I even knew it belonged to me. I didn't have time to prepare, no slow descent, no warning. One moment he was here, larger than life, stubborn and strong and mine and then he wasn't.
The grief with my mom was heavy, like an anchor, something I had to learn to live with over time. It shaped me, molded me, but it never truly surprised me.
With Nate, the grief is sharp, unpredictable. It crashes into me in ways I'm never ready for. One second I'm fine, and the next, I hear a song he loved, or I catch a glimpse of something that reminds me of him, and it feels like the ground has been ripped from under me.
I loved my mom my whole life. I had years of memories, of warmth, of knowing without a doubt that she loved me back.
With Nate, I barely had time. Not enough days, not enough memories, not enough us. And maybe that's what makes it harder. Because I didn't just lose him, I lost everything we never got the chance to have.
That's the difference.
Losing my mom changed me. Losing Nate broke me.
Grief is a strange thing. It tears you apart and stitches you back together in ways you never expected. It hurts like hell, like a wound that never fully heals, but somehow, it also holds a kind of beauty.
Because you don't grieve what you never loved.
Losing Nate has been the hardest thing I've ever faced. Some days, it feels like the weight of it might crush me, like I'll never be able to take a full breath again. It comes in waves... some small enough that I can keep moving, others so big they drag me under. And the thing about grief is that it doesn't ask for permission. It shows up unannounced, slipping in through the cracks when I least expect it.
But for all the pain it's brought me, there's something almost sacred about it too. Because grief is love, isn't it? It's love that has nowhere to go. It's every unspoken word, every laugh that never got to be shared, every future moment stolen too soon. It's proof that he mattered, that he changed me, that what we had was real.
I think that's the most beautiful thing about it. The ache in my chest, the tears I shed, the quiet moments where I miss him so much it physically hurts, they all mean that he was here. That he left his mark on me. That he loved me, and I loved him.
And if grief is the price of that love, then I'll carry it.
I'll carry it forever.
I don't know what comes after this. I don't have a perfect plan, no clear direction. But I do know one thing is that I refuse to let Nate's life, his love, be something that only exists in the past.
He wouldn't want that.
Nate never lived in half-measures. He played hard, loved fiercely, fought for what he wanted with everything he had. He didn't believe in coasting through life, in holding back, in settling for anything less than more. And if he were here, if he could see me now, I know exactly what he'd say.
Don't waste it, Billie.
I won't.
I don't want to spend the rest of my life drowning in what-ifs and regrets. I don't want to be afraid of moving forward, of laughing again, of finding joy in the simple things. Because I know, deep in my bones, that Nate would want me to keep going, to love harder, to fight for myself the way he always fought for me.
So I'll live.
I'll chase the dreams I never thought I was allowed to have. I'll push myself, even when doubt creeps in. I'll take risks, make mistakes, fall and get back up again. Because if Nate taught me anything, it's that life is meant to be lived fully, recklessly, without apology.
And every time I take a step forward, every time I push past the fear and the grief, I'll carry him with me.
Because loving him changed me.
And I owe it to him—to us—to make that mean something.
I never imagined a life with Nate before I met him. Not because I didn't want to but because I didn't know I could.
Back then, my world was small. Survival was my only goal. There was no room for dreams, no space to think about love or a future that didn't feel like a battle. Then he came crashing into my life, unrelenting and impossible to ignore, and suddenly, everything I thought I knew about myself shifted.
Now, it's hard to imagine a life without him.
Because he's gone.
The words feel like a jagged knife to the chest every time they pass through my mind. I try not to think them too often. Try not to let them settle, to let them make themselves at home. Because if I do, I might drown in them.
But no matter how much I fight it, the truth remains. Nate isn't here. And every time I reach for my phone, every time I roll over in bed expecting to hear his voice, every time I pass by the rink and feel the ghost of his presence. I am reminded of the impossible weight of his absence.
The memory crashes into me like a wave I can't outrun.
I can still hear the machines beeping, the steady rhythm that kept him tethered to this world. I had spent hours by his side, watching his chest rise and fall, whispering to him, praying and begging for him to wake up.
But then something changed.
The beeping turned erratic, a sound I'll never forget. His body tensed for the briefest moment, and then nothing. The monitors flatlined, a hollow, endless sound that ripped through my chest.
I froze.
It was like my body forgot how to move, how to breathe. I wanted to scream, but it was trapped inside me, clawing at my throat, silent and suffocating.
The room exploded into motion—nurses, doctors, voices shouting orders I couldn't process. Hands grabbing me, pushing me back as they worked to bring him back. I don't even remember stepping out of the room, but suddenly, I was in the hallway, staring at the door like if I just willed it hard enough, he'd walk out, grinning like this was all some sick joke.
But he didn't.
And the guilt, the unbearable, crushing weight of it settled into my bones.
It should have been me.
Nate had everything. A career, a future, people who loved him, teammates who depended on him. He was needed in this world. And me? I was just... existing. Getting by. I didn't have a grand purpose, no legacy to leave behind.
It wasn't fair.
None of it was fair.
I wanted to trade places. I would have, in a heartbeat. But life doesn't work like that. No matter how much you scream, how much you beg, how much you wish you could take their place, death doesn't negotiate.