The calendar slips into May before I know it. Each day at Summit is tightly packed: Hallie’s schedule is dominated by heavy-duty practice and punctuated by appointments with a revolving door of professionals: yoga and meditation sessions led by Sara, acupuncture and massage by a team of sports medicine doctors I found at Children’s Hospital in Boston, visits from a nutritionist to map out her pre-Olympic meals. I give so many pep talks, I spend my lunch breaks Googling inspirational quotes. My nights are busy, too: I hang out at home with Sara, go out for drinks with Jasmine more regularly now, and visit Mom and Dad for dinner when they complain it’s been too long since they’ve seen me.

I’m glad I’m mostly busy, because even with the little free time I have, it’s too easy to dwell on what happened with Ryan. The sadness creeps in during idle moments when I least expect it: I’ll be washing my hair in the shower when I realize how badly I miss kissing him. Or I’ll be waiting by the stove for water to boil when I get the urge to text him—and I can’t anymore. When I’m lying in shavasana at the end of yoga class, I should be relaxed. But instead, I rake over every memory I have of Ryan from February and March, trying to spot the moment I missed him betraying me. The last thing I want to do is let the weight of the breakup crush me. I have to keep moving in order to eventually move on.

When practice wraps up on Monday night, I’m heading out of the lobby when I see a missed call and a text from Jasmine. I pause in the doorway of the building to read the message.

Do you happen to be free tonight? Would love to talk to you. It’s important.

I’m about to text her back when I hear a noise behind me—someone clearing his throat.

“Oh, sorry,” I say, stepping outside into the warm spring night. It’s finally nice enough that you can get away without a jacket, and blips of music float by as cars drive past with their windows down. “Didn’t mean to block the door.”

I turn and flinch. There’s Ryan, awkwardly ruffling a hand through his hair.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” he says.

We’ve worked alongside each other just fine, but that’s the key word: “alongside.” Not with each other. Outside of communicating the essential logistics of Hallie’s training schedule, we’ve barely spoken two words to each other since returning from Nationals. I’m afraid that if I start, I won’t be able to stop, and I’ll blurt something embarrassing and emotional.

“It’s okay,” I say.

That much, at least, I can manage.