Today, the Witch from “The Prince Who Captured Lightning” calls to me, paws at me, asking me to tell her story next. An outcast from the Kingdoms Below the Skies, the drag queen sorceress only wanted to find her people, those who would love her, and she strove to protect others like her from ridicule. It’s why she cast a spell to hide Thunder from Lightning. Not because she was a vindictive, power-hungry stereotype, but because she knew that the People Below the Skies would come for the male titans because they were lovers.

Her story is one of pain and humility and queer magic. And I can’t wait to flesh her out. Perhaps if I win the mentorship, it’ll be something I can work on under Professor McPherson’s tutelage.

My thoughts drift to Leila and how there once was a time when I would’ve gone to her to gush about my new idea, so excited to work on it. I think about how she instinctively knew to call Rae the night everything fell apart with Jack and how much that meant to me, and I wonder what she’s doing now. She hasn’t been in our animation classes for a while. I’d be lying if I said I’m not worried about her. Residual love, I guess. Is that what happens after a break-up, friend or lover? Will there always be a residue of what was? I try to push the thought out of my head and instead focus on the rhythm of steady turns down a slope.

I don’t think about Jack until our fifth run of the day, when Sofía decides she, too, needs a hot chocolate break and leaves me alone. I remember how Jack and I made plans to go skiing together. I was so naive, dreaming that he would invite me to his parents’ house in Vermont, and we’d somehow be able to be open in front of them. With each turn, my stomach winces as flashes of memories we never got to make fill my mind.

Jack and I by the fireside in the ski lodge, his head on my shoulders.

Jack writing my thoughts in a poem as I sip hot chocolate.

Jack studying me as I sketch the mountain.

Jack and I exploring forbidden or closed trails.

Jack and I.

Jack.

Jack.

Jack.

By midafternoon, visibility on the mountain is shit. A rogue snowstorm that didn’t appear on the weather app I checked this morning is roaring through the area, and I barely make it inside before what looks like a blizzard engulfs the mountain.

Chloe and Sofía are sprawled out over the comfiest-looking couches near a crackling fire. As I strip off my ice-encrusted wool hat and wet gloves, I make my way over to them. I use my sweat-slick palm to wipe my eyes and absentmindedly walk into someone.

“Sorry, I wasn’t look—”