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The frozen lake cracked beneath his feet. Andrés hadn’t even planned to be out here. A friend had mentioned that people crossed the lake sometimes when the ice was thick enough, and he’d thought maybe a quiet walk would clear his mind, help him forget the week’s pressures. It seemed so simple. He needed a break, and somehow, he found himself here, standing on the lake’s vast, cold expanse, his thoughts drifting as aimlessly as his feet. The sound was faint, a low groan from some point beneath him, but he could feel the vibrations of it up through his bones. He stayed still, watching his breath hang in the air like a ghost, and wondered if he should move forward anymore-or if it mattered. The cold seeped into him, numbing fingers, numbing toes, numbing thoughts. What would it feel like, he wondered, to slip beneath the ice? There would be an initial shock, he imagined, a brief, piercing cold. Then stillness, silence. An end to the noise that seemed to fill every part of his mind.He closed his eyes, letting the darkness settle over him, and the memories began to emerge, sharp and vivid, like fragments of some half-forgotten dream. “Why can’t you just try harder?” his mother’s voice came through the walls, cutting into his silence. Andrés sat in his room hunched over, staring at his homework but not really seeing it.He’d tried to bury those words for so many years, to shake off the feeling they left behind. They weren’t meant to hurt, he told himself. But he couldn’t forget how small he’d felt hearing them. He remembered standing in front of the mirror, a little kid at that, wondering exactly what it was in him that seemed to make him so… wrong. He hadn’t told anyone about those nights, even years later in college. Even now, he smiled and laughed when people asked about home. Pretending was easier than explaining. At least, it used to be. “You always try so hard to look happy…” Her voice was soft, but her words struck deep. She was watching him, eyes filled with a pity he could barely stand. It had been months since their breakup, but her words stayed with him. He remembered trying to smile, even then, even as he felt his insides hollowing out. She’d known—she’d seen through his act, all the times he forced himself to pretend everything was fine. And he’d hated her for that, for seeing a part of him he barely recognized in himself. He shifted his weight on the ice; it groaned and fissured underneath him.The thought of that pity—of being seen and found wanting—made his chest tighten. The blanket was soft against his shoulder. Andrés sank into the couch as Abuela sat beside him, her warm hand resting over his, the glow of the TV casting flickering shadows on the wall. They sat in silence, watching some old black-and-white movie she’d loved. He was only eight, maybe nine, but he remembered that feeling—the sense that he was safe, loved. Her laughter, her hand on his, the warmth of her presence. She had been one of the few people who made him feel like he belonged, like he was more than just the sum of his faults.Now, standing on the ice, he felt a distant warmth flicker inside him, small and fragile, but still alive. “Don’t waste your potential.” His father’s voice, a steady echo in the back of his mind. He remembered their dinners, the way his father looked at him with that unyielding expectation. Andrés forced a smile, laughing along as if the pressure didn’t weigh on him like a stone around his neck. It was easier to keep up the act than to admit the truth—to say he felt like he was drowning under the weight of his father’s hopes, his mother’s words, his own disappointments. That mask, the one he wore every day, was beginning to crack, too. As the ice cracked louder, the memories kept coming, filling him with faces, voices, fragments of light and shadow. They felt like whispers beneath the ice, reaching out, tugging at him to stay. He could almost see himself from above, a small figure alone on the vast, empty lake. It would be so easy, he thought, to let it all go, to let himself slip beneath and end the noise, the weight. But then another memory surfaced—small, almost insignificant. He was sitting at a coffee shop, laughing over something silly with a friend, their voices blending with the soft hum of the crowd. In that moment, he’d felt light, like he belonged somewhere. And now, on the ice, that memory was just enough to pull him back. He thought about the mask he wore, the bright smile he forced in front of friends, family, even strangers. It had always seemed easier to laugh, to shrug off questions and act like he was fine. But now, with nothing but the cold air around him, he felt the weight of that facade, the exhaustion of holding up a version of himself he barely recognized. He took a step back, then another. The ice groaned, as if protesting, but he kept moving, focusing on the shore in the distance. Each step was heavier than the last, as though he were carrying every memory, every moment he’d tried to bury.When he finally reached the shore, he turned back to look at the lake. It was still, silent, as if nothing had happened, as if it hadn’t come so close to swallowing him whole. The air around him felt warmer, but he still felt the coldness inside, that lingering ache that he knew wouldn’t disappear overnight. But he was here. He was still here. He sat down at the edge of the lake, letting his breath steady, feeling the weight of his own heartbeat. He didn’t feel peace, or even relief—just a quiet, persistent ache. But as he looked out over the frozen expanse, he felt something else, too, a small, tentative warmth that told him he could make it through one more day.And maybe tomorrow, he’d make it through another.

Cracks in the Ice

IsabellaV

Isabella Pazmino-Schell

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Isabella Pazmino Schell

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