The only thing the sport gives us are moments.

But what the hell is life, Peter, apart from moments?

Fredrik Backman

The screen of her phone had already been cracked previously, so its condition now wasn't any different. She felt her bottom lip tremble and shoved the device into her jacket, unable to answer the text. She knew who it was from. There was only one person who knew her love for the stars. Who knew exactly what to say when she was frustrated. Her mind raced with thoughts of where he could be. He couldn't possibly in the Big Apple. It was far too nostalgic. He didn't enjoy the city.

She shouldered her bag and took the long walk back to her apartment complex. If there was one thing she hated, it was the past forcing itself onto the present. She glanced up at the now black sky. The little lights had disappeared. With an exhausted sigh, she took the stairwell and to her disappointment, met with James, the landlord. He looked frustrated. Who could blame him? She hadn't paid rent for two months now. All she gave him were empty promises. Instead of speaking, she waited for him.

He was a burly man with a beer belly and a head of little hair. Still, he was a nice guy. He knew her. He was probably the closest thing to a father figure she'd ever get. And that was saying something. He opened his mouth. Closed it. "Clarissa, my dear..."

"I already know, Mr. James. You're kicking me out." She continued for him, her voice blunt and not the least bit bitter. To her surprise, he shook his head. He was sweating. Her eyes softened.

"That's okay, sir. I haven't paid anything and I know I can't stay here without giving you something." She smiled, trying to reassure him that she was indeed fine with it. "I already had my stuff packed anyway." That was a lie. Still, it was closer to the truth; she didn't have anything to pack.

James rubbed his red forehead. "You know this is a family owned apartment, Clarissa. I don't make all the decisions here." He paused and placed a hesitant hand on her shoulder. "If it was my choice, I'd let you stay here. It's just-"

"I know. It's alright. I owe you so much." Clary tried not to look at the regretful expression on his face. He was honest.

"No." He answered firmly. "You remind me of-" His adam's apple bobbed. "My daughter Sheryl. You guys would've been good friends."

She stepped forward and embraced him. She didn't know much of his personal life. Yet, she had understood that he had lost someone close to him. Sheryl was his only child. He clasped onto her tightly and almost unsure of herself, Clary shed a few tears into his shoulder. She didn't know the exact reason why.

When the two pulled away, they heard a tenant calling for James. Clary nodded towards him. "I'll leave tonight."

He looked reluctant to walk away. Instead, he tugged out an envelope from his shirt pocket and handed it to her. "What's this?" She asked, turning it over in her hands.

James smiled a little. "Just something to get you going."

"Sir, I don't think that's necessary. You've done enough for me as it is."

His eyes sparkled. "No, I want to do more than enough. Keep skating, Clary."

She felt her heart swell at his words. She struggled to nod her head at him. She didn't want to blink or else the storm would brew in her eyes. "Thank you. I'll come and visit."

As he trudged up the stairs, he said, "Please do that. Stay safe."

When he was gone, Clary held onto the bannister and unlocked her door, her fingers trembling. She stumbled inside the room, and only when she was hidden away from everything, did she crumble to the ground. She curled herself into her knees. She let the waves of water slide past her cheeks. All she could think about was that one person in the world had hopes for her. She wasn't entirely alone. Did Mr. James actually believe in her? Her chest contracted. She peered at the space she had lived in for almost a year. It was a mess of nothing. Unfinished paintings. Crumbled sketches. Broken skates. Old costumes. Chinese take-out boxes.

She rose slowly to her feet and began to shove her belongings into an empty trash bag she had found. All she took were her skates and costumes. She gathered the art pieces and left them at the foot of the door with a note. It read: Maybe you want these. Store them away until I come back, Mr. James. I'm sure I'll finish them one day.

With that, she left and searched for a place to sleep.

x

The thing about New York was that if you were at the bottom, you stayed at the bottom. Clary knew that more than anyone. And if you fell from the limelight, nobody would lift you up. She must have appeared homeless, for she carried a burden no one else seemed to notice. In spite of it all, her feet danced across the pavement. There was something about the way she moved. Anyone could tell she was a dancer. Clary picked her way to the arena again. This time, under different circumstances.

She gazed at the doors and whispered, "I always come back for you. Even when I don't want to."

There was something touching about that moment. That a tiny girl, who might be totally alone in the world, was speaking to an inanimate object. She probably wouldn't have it any other way, though. And that was the beauty of it. The way humans settle for things that they sometimes don't deserve. Clary walked inside the arena and searched the locker rooms. She found three, clean towels. They were small, but they were enough to be used as blankets. It felt so odd being in a place where thousands had sat before you. She carefully settled against her bag, turning it into a pillow. When she was as comfortable as she could get, she pulled out her phone.

In the darkness of the scene, the light of the screen made her eyes burn. She stared at the message he had sent nearly hours before.

I wonder if you're looking at the same stars as me.

Clary had thought of ignoring it, living her life without the presence of an old memory. But there was something dragging her back. Something keeping her in this rugged building. A building about to be demolished. She typed the customary response. The answer she knew he wanted. A message she'd told him many times before.

I have to be. Otherwise, how else would we be connected?

Her finger hovered over the send button. Shutting her eyes, she clicked it. And she slept, daring herself not to observe her phone the entire night. She didn't know the extent of her text. She didn't know that her words could've sent a young man to buy a plane ticket. She didn't know he was at an airport, thousands of miles away from her, sitting on a chair, eyes glued to his phone. She didn't know that he had been waiting for her and that her answer meant he was coming back. She just didn't know.

Instead, Clary was slumbering, her mouth slightly parted and her hair clumsily falling against the unbearable surface of the bleachers in an arena that held the past, present, and future. In an arena that the both of them called home.

xx