Zenobia

“Love all, trust a few, do wrong to none.”

[winterszenobia]

Is that MARGOT ROBBIE? No, that’s just ZENOBIA WINTERS. They were born on 02/10/1994 and are a WITCH (CIRCLE OF THE AURORA COVEN) living in Northknot Town. They work as an EXPRESSIVE ARTS THERAPIST. Some say they're OPTIMISTIC and PATIENT, but I’ve heard others say they're JEALOUS and STUBBORN. When you think of HER, don’t you think of PAINT SPLASHES ON YOUR JEANS, A STACK OF MENTAL HEALTH BOOKS ON THE COUNTER & ILLEGIBLE SCRIBBLES ON A NOTEPAD?

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.

It wasn't until Zenobia finally broke down and called her best friend that things started to turn around for the blonde. She told Grace everything that had been going on and one day while Lauren was at work, Grace came and helped her move her things out of their shared apartment in Toronto. She ended up moving back home at her best friend's convincing. While in Northknot, she started working in her career and made a name for herself. She and Grace bought a house together near the neighborhood she grew up in and she is working as an Expressive Arts Therapist at a practice near the hospital.

[winterszenobia]

The bell above the café door chimed just as Zenobia reached for it from the inside. For a second, she thought her brain was doing that thing again. That cruel little habit of stitching memories onto strangers. Then she looked up. Isla. Six months, and somehow she still recognized her before her mind had finished processing the shape of her face. Isla’s smile as Zenobia looked up at her. The way she’d asked her to dance like it mattered. Zenobia stopped so abruptly the to-go coffee she'd just bought sloshed over the rim, the warmth kissing her fingers go unnoticed. The room seemed to narrow around them, conversations fading into the background until all she could hear was the rush of blood in her ears. She had imagined this moment more times than she cared to admit. In every version, she'd been better prepared. "Hi." The word came out smaller than she'd intended. She searched Isla's face for something she couldn't even name. Anger. Relief. Indifference. Hurt. Some proof that six months of silence had meant something. Her fingers tightened around the paper cup. "I..." She let out a quiet, self-conscious laugh that carried no real humor. "I've rehearsed running into you about a hundred different ways." A tiny shake of her head. "Turns out none of them included actually seeing you." A silence settled between them, not hostile, just... unbearably full. Zenobia looked down at her coffee for a moment before finding the courage to meet Isla's eyes again. "I owe you an apology." Her voice was steadier now, but only just a little. "I disappeared." No excuses. No I've been busy. No work got hectic. Just the truth they both already knew. "I kept telling myself I was giving you space." Her thumb traced absent circles around the cardboard sleeve. "Then enough time passed that it started feeling... impossible to explain." She swallowed. "I wasn't avoiding you because I didn't want to see you." Her eyes shimmered despite herself. "I was avoiding you because..." The words caught, and for just a second, the practiced composure she'd spent six months rebuilding fractured around the edges. "...because you... you were the person wh-who found me after..." She looked away... Her vision blurred, tears streaking sideways as she turned her face away, a broken sound tearing from her chest. Fireworks thundered somewhere outside while she lay pinned to the floor of her own workplace, shaking, humiliated, terrified in a way that reached past pain... She blinked hard. "I thought if anyone had a reason to walk away..." A small, defeated smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. "...it would've been you." When she looked back, there was no performance left. Only honesty. "I've missed you." @howmcnythings

[fikazephyr]

The thousand-yard stare. James sees it before he can fully make out the blonde's features.

He walks the longer path to the front courtyard, the one that lands beside her, not behind. His steps are calm, approachable, steady. His eyes flicker over her tense shoulders. White knuckles. Tight jaw. The edge in her reassurances that doesn't go unmissed. Her heartbeat in a boomerang rhythm—sharp, echoing, almost overwhelming his ears. He smiles anyway. Easy, warm—unassuming.

The elf leaves a brief pause after Zenobia's words, letting the morning air settle around them. He nods, agreeing that it's just a building. Accepting her version of fine. Whether she believes it or not, he knows she needs it to be true right now. "You should know by now how hard it is to surprise me." He follows her gaze to the front windows, eyes flicking to the new door sitting just behind the glass. His ghostly smile sits more naturally as he speaks. "Something told me I might see you today." Looking back to her, he tilts his head towards the building, his expression soft, with the shadow of something unsettled beneath it. "You've been very missed."

[winterszenobia]

Zenobia laughed softly through her nose, the sound thin but genuine enough to exist. "Yeah," she murmured, eyes never quite leaving the front doors. "You did have a whole week of false alarms to develop a sixth sense." The corner of her mouth lifted, just enough to acknowledge the joke. "I'm aware my attendance record lately has been... aspirational." The smile faded before it could settle. Her fingers loosened around her keys for exactly one heartbeat before tightening again. She studied the entrance like she was trying to negotiate with it. Walk. Her body answered with another rush of adrenaline that made her stomach turn. "I missed you too," she admitted quietly, almost smiling. Zenobia drew in a careful breath, her ribs still reminding her they weren't completely healed.

"I keep telling myself it's irrational." A humorless smile ghosted across her face. "I know exactly what's happening neurobiologically. The amygdala. Triggering my conditioned fear response. Trauma encoding. I could give a lecture on it." She swallowed, watching the sunlight catch against the glass. "Turns out knowing the science doesn't make your legs listen." Silence settled between them for a moment. Then, almost hesitantly, she finally looked at James instead of the building. "I've been angry at myself," she confessed, the admission so quiet it almost disappeared into the fountain. Her shoulders lifted in the smallest shrug. "I keep thinking if I just... tried harder..." She smiled again, but it was tired now, worn around the edges. "...which is a terrible thing for a therapist to believe." Her eyes drifted back toward the practice one last time. "I don't want what happened here to win," she whispered. "I'm just... not sure my body got the memo yet."

[mcnstercus]

Grace apologized to her brother and Alec for having to leave early, knowing that as much as she loved her brother, Zenobia needed her more then. Her heart dropping when Atlas told her that Zenobia was hurt. Grace looked over her chart for a moment before replying, "You know, if you didn't want to do the dishes tonight, you didn't have to go through all this trouble," she said. "I would've made it work, but now you gotta deal with a slightly tipsy Henderson at your bedside." She cracked a small smile. "How are you doing? Are you in a lot of pain?"

[winterszenobia]

Zenobia let out the faintest huff of laughter, immediately wincing as it tugged at her fractured eye socket. "See?" she murmured, her words a little slower around the swelling in her jaw. "I knew you'd understand. Very reasonable trade, really. Skip dishes, gain... whatever this is." She gestured vaguely toward herself with her good hand, the movement stopping halfway when her cracked ribs protested. "Ten out of ten. Wouldn't recommend." The joke dissolved almost as quickly as it had come. She looked at Grace then, really looked at her, and something in her expression softened into relief so profound it almost hurt. Home. Grace had always felt like home. "I don't know," she admitted after a long pause. "Everyone keeps asking how I am, and I... I genuinely don't know how to answer that." She gave the smallest shake of her head. "Everything hurts," she confessed quietly. "My doctors told me exactly what's broken, and that they're fixing all of it." Her gaze drifted toward the window for a second before returning to Grace, suddenly much younger somehow. "It's the rest that I don't really know what to do with." She blinked hard, catching the tears before they could fall, then offered Grace another tired smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "I'm sorry," she said automatically, because apparently that phrase had become stitched into every sentence now. "You were supposed to be celebrating your brother and his wedding, and instead..." She glanced around the hospital room. "...instead you're here."

[winterszenobia]

The takeout containers had long since gone cold somewhere on the coffee table, abandoned halfway through dinner after Atlas insisted she at least try to eat something. They'd played an old card game they'd practically memorized as kids, argued over rules that neither of them had ever actually followed, laughed once, maybe twice. It had almost felt normal. Almost. Now they lay on the living room floor, shoulders touching, the way they always had since they were babies, staring up at the ceiling fan as it turned slow, lazy circles overhead. The room was dim except for the lamp tucked into the corner, casting everything in warm amber that softened the edges of the room but couldn't quite reach the corners. Zenobia's fingers were folded neatly over her stomach, the picture of composure. She hadn't cried all evening. Had barely fidgeted. If someone had walked in, they would've thought she was finally okay. She wasn't. She listened to the quiet for a long time, counting the rotations of the fan because numbers were easier than thoughts. One. Two. Three. "I lied to you." The words came so softly they almost disappeared into the hum of the house. She hadn't lied, not exactly. Just left something out. Buried. Pretended. Her throat tightened. "About that night..." She swallowed, blinking rapidly at the ceiling. "I mean... Not about being attacked. Not about... most of it." A long pause stretched between them. "I just..." Her voice cracked, and she hated that it did. "There's something I need to tell you." Her chest rose unevenly beneath one careful breath. "Something I left out about that night." Silence again. Long enough that she almost convinced herself not to continue. She knew that trauma survived in secrecy. That shame loved locked doors. She was so tired of carrying it by herself. Zenobia turned her head just enough to look at Atlas, her right eye long healed but still carrying the faint discoloration beneath it, the nearly invisible scar along her jaw catching the light if you knew where to look. She tried to hold his gaze. Couldn't. Her eyes drifted back to the ceiling. "I couldn't say it before," she whispered. "I couldn't even... think the words without my brain shutting the whole conversation down." Her fingers twisted together until her knuckles blanched. "I thought if I never said it..." A shaky laugh escaped, empty and exhausted. Then, so quietly it barely sounded like her own voice, "Maybe it wouldn't be real." @mcnstercus

[fairywilds]

DRUSILLA’S MOUTH CURVED DESPITE herself at the internship comment , a soft huff of a laugh slipping out before she could stop it . ❝ insufferable is generous , ❞ she replied dryly . ❝ i was under-caffeinated and deeply convinced i was surrounded by idiots which is a dangerous combination . ❞ she settled back into the chair fully now , posture l o o s e n i n g in a way that rarely happened in public spaces , elbows resting lightly on her knees . she didn’t rush to fill the quiet that followed because she knew she didn’t need to . zenobia’s breath had already told her more than words could . ❝ aura assessment , ❞ dru repeated flatly , one brow lifting a fraction in bemusement . ❝ yeah , i guess that tracks , in this town . ❞ but her gaze softened when zenobia spoke again , when the jokes thinned and something real slipped through . drusilla noticed everything : the careful shifts , the wince masked too fast , the way ❛ i’m fine ❜ came out like muscle memory instead of t r u t h . this was her sister , after all . when zen’s fingers brushed her sleeve , drusilla didn’t move away . she let the contact stay , grounding and deliberate , her own hand turning just enough that the back of her fingers rested lightly against zenobia’s wrist as was present , but not demanding . ❝ sitting i can do , ❞ she said quietly . ❝ i’m excellent at not fixing things i can’t control . it’s the ones i c a n that always get me into trouble . ❞ she tilted her head slightly , meeting zenobia’s eyes without pressing , without d i s s e c t i n g . ❝ i’m not going anywhere . you can joke . or sit in silence . whatever you want , i'm h e r e for you . ❞ her thumb brushed once , barely there , against Zen’s wrist but it was more than a gesture . it was a promise , easy to make , because zen had been there for her in similar ways before in the past .

[winterszenobia]

Zenobia watched their hands for a long moment, her gaze settling on the small point of contact like it was something tangible enough to hold onto. Drusilla's fingers against her wrist were featherlight, careful in a way that somehow hurt more than if she'd ignored every bruise altogether. She couldn't remember the last time she'd let herself simply be looked after without immediately trying to earn it back. A tired smile ghosted across her face. "You're better at sitting than you think," she murmured, her voice quieter now, stripped of most of its practiced brightness. "You always have been." Her eyes lifted to meet Drusilla's again, lingering there just long enough before drifting toward the window. "When we were kids... you always knew when not to ask questions. You'd just... exist beside me until I figured out what I wanted to say." A slow breath escaped her, careful against protesting ribs. "I forgot how much I needed that." She fell quiet again, fingers curling weakly around the blanket. Tell her. The thought arrived uninvited. Tell her you're scared. Tell her you don't know how to sleep anymore. Tell her you close your eyes and you're back on that floor. Instead she swallowed it down so hard it almost hurt more than the fractured jaw. "I don't..." Her voice caught unexpectedly. She frowned at herself, frustrated by it. "I don't really know who I'm supposed to be after this." The admission slipped out before she could polish it into something easier to carry. She laughed once under her breath, humorless. "That's dramatic, isn't it?" Her head gave the smallest shake. "Forget I said that." Another silence settled, gentler this time. "I'm really tired, Dru," she confessed, almost whispering now. "Not sleepy. Just..." Her eyes shimmered despite every effort to keep them steady. She blinked quickly, forcing the tears back before they could fall, offering one last crooked smile that looked more fragile than convincing. "...tired."

[winterszenobia]

The porch light had already come on by the time Grace pulled into the driveway. Zenobia had turned it on hours ago. Not because she needed it. Because she couldn't stop pacing. She'd worn a path from the kitchen to the living room and back again, socks whispering across hardwood floors until even that familiar rhythm couldn't settle the storm inside her. Theo had left not long ago. She'd told him. Actually told him. Every horrible piece she'd hidden. She thought saying it once would make it easier. Instead it felt like someone had cracked her ribs open and forgotten to close them again. The front door unlocked. Zenobia looked up immediately. Grace had barely stepped inside before Zen stood from where she'd been perched on the edge of the couch. "Hey." The greeting came automatically. Too automatic. She watched Grace kick off her shoes, watched her set down her work bag, watched a hundred ordinary little motions that suddenly felt impossibly precious. For months she'd let her best friend believe she knew everything. She hadn't. Zenobia rubbed her palms together nervously. "Before you do... literally anything else..." Her voice trembled. "...can you sit with me?" She managed exactly three seconds of eye contact before looking away. "I need to tell you something." The words scraped coming out. "Actually..." A watery laugh escaped that wasn't funny in the slightest. "I need to tell you what really happened." Her fingers found the sleeve of her sweater, twisting the fabric over and over until her knuckles whitened. A tear slipped free. "I've been telling everyone part of the truth." She drew one slow, shaky breath. "And I don't... I don't want to carry the rest of it by myself anymore." @mcnstercus

[winterszenobia]

The house had never sounded so loud. Not because of noise. Because of silence. The detectives had only been gone a few minutes. Their coffee mugs still sat untouched on the dining room table beside the folder they'd brought, one page left half-slid from the stack where she'd stopped looking at it. The front door hadn't even fully settled in its frame before Zenobia found herself collapsing against the back of it. Her knees had buckled before she even realized she'd stopped breathing. Now nearly an hour later, not knowing how long she'd even sat there crying, Zenobia's phone buzzed on the floor next to her. She couldn't hear it. Couldn't hear anything except that sentence. "The footage confirms..." She squeezed her eyes shut. No. Don't. "The sexual portion..." Months. Six months. She'd built an entire life around never finishing that sentence. And now somebody else had. Her hands shook so violently she nearly dropped her phone trying to take hold of it. She stared at it for a long moment, thumb hovering. Her vision blurred. She pressed call before she could change her mind about returning the missed call. The first ring nearly made her hang up. When he answered, she couldn't speak. Not right away. Only the sound of uneven breathing filled the line. "...Theo?" Her voice sounded frighteningly small. "I..." She swallowed hard, wiping angrily at tears that refused to stop. "Can you... can you come over?" A pause. "You don't have to bring anything." Another shaky breath. "I just..." Her words fractured. "...I don't think I can be by myself right now." Then, quieter than he'd probably ever heard her, "I have to tell someone." Her eyes drifted toward the abandoned folder on the table. "The whole truth." @hxrricvnes

[mcnstercus]

Atlas let out a small, airy, laugh at her joke about the blanket, "Now you understand why I always had my own blanket when I had treatments," he replied. "Three things you can hear?"

[winterszenobia]

--end

[hxrricvnes]

THE YOUNGEST WINTERS SIBLING HADN'T BEEN ALL THE EXCITED FOR A NEW YEAR. she was able to write it off mostly, it was very on brand for her. no one thought to question it. she still hadn't told anyone what was going on with her. wasn't sure how. . . but any thoughts of sharing it went away the moment she heard that zen was hurt. attacked. despite how -small- she felt in the presence of her siblings, perseis didn't think twice about going to see her sister. upon entering, she paused at the sight. her breath hitched slightly. “ you don't have to do that– ” she spoke softly. almost as if she was afraid to be too loud. nearing her sister, she took he hand. “ not for my benefit. ” she added, but sat down anyways. not letting go of zen's hand.

[winterszenobia]

Zenobia's smile wavered almost instantly, the effort of holding it together suddenly feeling heavier than the cast of bruises blooming beneath her hospital gown. Perseis had always been the youngest, the one Zen still instinctively wanted to shield from sharp edges and ugly things, and hearing those quiet words made something inside her chest ache deeper than the cracked ribs ever could. She gave Perseis's hand the gentlest squeeze her sprained wrist could manage, careful despite herself. "It's habit," she admitted with a small, crooked breath that almost passed for a laugh before dying somewhere between them. "I..." Her voice trailed off, eyes dropping to where their hands rested together. Silence settled for a beat. Her thumb brushed weakly over Perseis's knuckles, grounding herself in the warmth of her little sister. "I'm supposed to be your big sister." The sentence cracked apart under its own weight. "I'm supposed to be the one making sure you're okay."

[winterszenobia]

Zenobia’s eyes went wide for half a second. “No! Oh my god—if I make a peg-leg joke, you’ll know, because you’ll hear the guilt spiral from space.” She flicked his arm lightly. “I’m just saying you look tired, not auditioning you for Pirates of the Caribbean: Surgical Edition.” Her expression softened again, the worry creeping back in around the edges. “Yeah… you should definitely call your prosthetist. Overworking it is basically your love language, but that doesn’t mean you get to wreck yourself just to prove a point.” She nudged his shoulder, gentler this time. At his question, she gave him a flat, unimpressed look. “Please. I brought you Icy Hot during rush hour and fixed your collar. Obviously I’m paying.” Then, with a smirk, “But only if you don’t die performing this surgery. That’s my one condition.”

[mcnstercus]

Atlas let out a laugh. "Pirates of the Caribbean: Surgical Edition," he repeated, "that would be interesting." Atlas nudged her should back lightly. "I will not die in this surgery, and it'll take maybe two hours max, meet back here and we can grab something from the cafeteria downstairs? Unless you want to grab something for us to eat while I'm in surgery?"

[winterszenobia]

--end

[winterszenobia]

This Pain Is Too Big For Words.

TW: PTSD, Physical Assault, Sexual Assault, Workplace Trauma Honorable Mentions: N/A This is set on July 1st, 2026, at 2:10pm at Zenobia and Grace's home, during a visit with NKPD.

July 1st. Six months. Zenobia had always believed there was something comforting about numbers. Birthdays. Anniversaries. Milestones. Dates that could be circled on a calendar and given meaning. She had built entire careers around helping people understand that time could be a tool, that healing was not linear but it was still movement. That the brain could relearn safety. That the body could forgive what it had been forced to carry. Six months was supposed to mean something. Six months meant she was alive. Six months meant she was walking. Six months meant her ribs had healed enough that she could breathe without thinking about every inhale, her jaw no longer screamed every time she spoke, her wrist had finally stopped aching with every small movement. The bruising was gone. The cuts had faded into pale little reminders instead of angry marks. Six months meant everyone looked at her and saw progress. And Zenobia had gotten very, very good at giving people what they wanted to see.

She had gone back to work. She had smiled with clients. She had answered questions with the same calm voice she used when someone else was falling apart. She had painted. She had danced. She had skated. She had meditated until her body went quiet enough that she could pretend silence was peace. She had done everything right. So why did the knock at her door feel heavier than anything she’d ever lifted? It came exactly when Zenobia expected it to. That somehow made it worse. Unexpected things were easier. Unexpected things could be blamed on timing, on bad luck, on a world that moved too quickly and didn’t give people enough warning. But this had been scheduled. Planned. Put neatly into her calendar beside appointments and grocery lists and reminders to call her parents back. Another normal day. Except there was a detective standing on the other side of the door.

Zenobia stared at the wood for a moment longer than she should have, one hand resting against the edge of the counter as her untouched tea sat nearby, cold and forgotten. She was dressed, hair done, house clean, everything exactly where it belonged. Control. That was the word she had built the last six months around. She opened the door with the same calm expression she used with clients. “Detective,” she greeted softly, stepping aside. “Come in.” The detective offered a small, polite nod as he entered, another officer following behind him; their movements cautious in that way people became when they knew they were walking into something fragile. Zenobia noticed, of course she noticed. She noticed everything. “Thank you for meeting with us,” the older detective said. “I know this isn’t easy.”

Zenobia gave the automatic response that had carried her through every difficult conversation since January. “It’s fine.” The words came out smoothly, almost perfectly, even though they weren’t true. They came out so naturally it almost scared her. The detectives exchanged the smallest glance, but neither commented. They sat in the living room. Zenobia sat across from them with her hands folded neatly in her lap, her posture composed, her expression calm. Professional. Capable. A woman having a conversation. Not a survivor. Not a victim. Just Zenobia. The younger detective opened the file carefully. “We wanted to update you on the investigation. The evidence collected, including the security footage from your workplace, has allowed the case to move forward.” Zenobia nodded along because she understood how these things worked. She understood procedure. She understood the language. She understood everything except how to be the person at the center of it. The older detective hesitated. The younger one didn’t.

“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.

[hxrricvnes]

THE SIGHT OF HER LIKE THAT hit him harder than any blow ever could. the way her shoulders sagged, the way her voice broke on that single word — hey — like it cost her something just to say it. theo didn’t speak right away. he crossed the room instead, slow and deliberate, like any sudden movement might scare her back behind whatever walls she’d been forcing up. he stopped close, not crowding her, just enough that she’d know he was there. staying. “ zen… ” his voice was low, steady, meant to anchor. “ you don’t have to be okay. not with me. ” one hand lifted, hovering for half a second before he rested it gently against the blanket near her fingers — an offer, not an assumption. when she looked at him like that — stripped bare, no armour left — something in his chest t w i s t e d. “ what you are... ” he said quietly, “ is alive. and here. and someone who went through hell and didn’t deserve a second of it. ” his jaw tightened, just briefly. “ you don’t have to figure yourself out right now. you don’t have to explain it or name it. ” his gaze stayed on hers, unwavering. “ you can just be not okay. i’ve got you while you are. ”

[winterszenobia]

Zenobia froze for half a heartbeat when he moved closer—muscle memory flaring sharp and stupid—before her brain caught up. It’s Theo. It’s just Theo. You’re safe. Her breath hitched anyway, shallow against the ache in her ribs, jaw throbbing as she swallowed it down. She stared at his hand where it rested near hers, the space between them loud. Then she reached out. Her fingers slid into his, careful at first because everything hurt, because her wrist protested and her nails were broken and tender—but once she had him, she held on like gravity had finally remembered its job.

“I know,” she whispered, voice rough, eyes burning. “I know all the words you’re saying are true.” A pause, her thumb brushing weakly against his knuckles. “I just… don’t feel like myself anymore. Like I left her somewhere last night and didn’t get directions back.” Her gaze dropped, lashes shadowing the bruised swell of her eye. “Everyone else keeps telling me I’m strong,” she said quietly, almost bitter. “And maybe I am. But right now I just feel… scared. And tired. And really bad at pretending.” She squeezed his hand once, grounding, honest. “So—” a breath, shaky but real, “—thank you for not asking me to be anything else.”

[winterszenobia]

The bar at Roscoe’s RV Park & Rodeo smells like sawdust, beer, and the faint sweetness of hay that’s been tracked in on boots. It’s loud enough to feel alive but not loud enough to drown out a person’s thoughts, which Zenobia is discovering might have been a tactical error. She sits at the edge of the counter with her coat still on like she might bolt any second, fingers wrapped around a glass of something she hasn’t actually touched. The music is country. Of course it is. Somewhere outside a horse snorts, metal clinks, someone laughs too hard. Her jaw tightens automatically. Too loud. Too close. Door behind you. Zenobia exhales slowly through her nose and presses her thumb against the rim of the glass until the cold bites back. Grounding. That’s what this is. Just grounding. Just being a person who goes out and sees her friends and does normal human things. Cassie is moving around the room like she owns gravity itself, bright and loud and unmistakably Cassie. The kind of presence that fills space instead of shrinking inside it. Zenobia watches her for a moment, something complicated flickering through her expression before she lifts a hand slightly. “Hey, cowgirl.” Her voice is steady. Too steady. When Cassie gets close enough, Zenobia offers a small smile that almost reaches her eyes. Almost. “Before you say anything—yes, I’m aware this looks suspiciously like me leaving my house voluntarily.” She nudges the untouched drink with one finger. “Don’t get used to it.” The joke lands a little crooked. She glances around the bar again, quick, instinctive, cataloguing exits before she stops herself. “I figured it was time I stopped acting like a cryptid,” she adds, lighter than she feels. “Everyone keeps telling me how great I’m doing, so… here I am. Being great.” A pause. Her fingers tighten around the glass again. Then she looks back at Cassie, eyes a little sharper now, like she’s bracing for impact but pretending she isn’t. “You gonna sit with me,” she asks quietly, “or are you working the room tonight?” @fikazephyr

[lateloversnights]

margot robbie in harper’s bazaar france, august 2025.

[winterszenobia]

The courtyard looks disrespectfully normal. The fountain is still murmuring like it has no concept of violence. The winter hedges are trimmed. The brass letters on the stone read NewGen Family Health like a promise. Like a brand. Like something clean. Zenobia stands at the edge of the brick path with her keys digging crescents into her palm, staring at the building where it happened. No police tape. No cracked windows. No visible scar. The office lights glow warm behind the glass, soft and inviting, as if the walls didn’t memorize the sound of her body hitting the floor. It has been fifty six days. She has painted through them. Danced through them. Skated figure eights into frozen rinks like she could carve control back into her nervous system. She has therapied herself with breathing exercises and cognitive reframes and little gold star affirmations. She has told herself she is functional. She has told herself her clients need her. She has told herself she is not the kind of woman who disappears. Her chest tightens anyway. Her body does that awful thing where it remembers before her brain does. Her vision tunnels. The air tastes metallic. For a second she is not in the courtyard. She is on the floor. Fluorescent light. Blood in her lashes. The sound of her own breath coming out wrong. She blinks. She is still standing. Still upright. Still composed. “Get it together,” she whispers to herself, jaw locking. A therapist who co-owns a practice does not freeze in parking lots. A woman who survived does not flinch at brick and glass. A woman who is healing does not feel her pulse ricochet like this. Footsteps cross the courtyard. Steady. Familiar. When she turns, it is not all the way. Just enough to see him in her periphery. Jameson Adler moving toward her with that doctor’s stride, observant even when he pretends not to be. “I was going to surprise you,” she says lightly, because she is excellent at light. Her voice sounds normal. Polished. Practiced. “Thought I’d come back today. Ease in. I’m fine.” The word fine lands between them like a dare. Her fingers are white around her keys. She does not step forward. She cannot make her feet move toward the door. The building looks the same. That is the problem. It looks untouched. As if nothing inside it tried to unmake her. “They need me,” she adds, and there is something sharper under it now. Defensive. Almost… angry. “And I’m not… fragile.” Her gaze drifts back to the windows. For a split second, her reflection in the glass looks like someone else. Someone distant. Someone already halfway gone. She swallows. “It’s just a building,” she says, more to herself than to him. But her body does not believe her. @fikazephyr

[winterszenobia]

A Medal for Surviving.

TW: PTSD, Physical Assault, Sexual Assault (implied), Suicidal Ideation (passive) Honorable Mentions: Addison Blake ( @howmcnythings ), Grace Henderson ( @mcnstercus ) Isla Pierce ( @howmcnythings ) & Theodore Sinclair ( @hxrricvnes ) This is set on February 17th, 2026, at 12:34am at Zenobia and Grace's home that they share.

Zenobia spent February 16th the way she’d spent most days since New Year’s: like a woman performing normalcy with the discipline of a surgeon and the grace of a liar. It was after midnight now, technically the 17th, but the house still belonged to the 16th in her head, still wearing its quiet like a coat she refused to take off. Grace was at work. All day, her family had texted and called and offered to swing by with food and soft voices and concerned eyes, and Zenobia had smiled into her phone and said, “I’m fine, I just want a day to myself. I’m going to binge the Olympics and paint. It’s literally the most Zenobia thing I could do.” Like it was cute. Like it was a personality quirk and not a coping mechanism. Like she wasn’t rationing her own attention the way you ration water in a desert.

She’d healed. Enough that people stopped looking at her like she might shatter if they spoke too loudly. Her orbital fracture was mostly a memory now, the bruising long gone, but her right eye still felt… different, like the socket remembered the violence even when the mirror didn’t. Her jaw had been wired and repaired, forced into compliance. The swelling was down, the incision lines faint and pale along her skin, but some mornings she still woke up with her teeth clenched so hard her whole skull throbbed, as if her body had decided that if it stayed braced, nothing could get in again. Her bruised lung had stopped punishing her for laughing, but she hadn’t laughed much anyway. The rib fractures were healing, that deep ache turning into something dull and weathered, like old wood. Her left wrist was the one that refused to move on, still weak, still tender when she twisted wrong, still reminding her that sprains weren’t dramatic enough for anyone to respect but could haunt you for months if they felt like it. Her nails had grown out, mostly. The broken jagged edges were gone, but the beds still looked bruised in certain light, like her hands carried their own private afterimage of what they’d done.

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.