But I can't afford that.
Can't afford weakness.
Can't afford anything except the mask I've spent years perfecting.
So I plaster on my brightest, falsest smile—the one that makes people think I'm fine, I'mgreat, I'm absolutely not falling apart at the seams—and spin on my heel to face her one last time.
"Hey," I say, and my voice is sugar-sweet with an edge of broken glass. "Maybe he'll come rescue me like Prince Charming. Sweep me off my feet and steal me away from all this madness."
Maria's eyes are too knowing.Too sad.Too full of the understanding that we both know that's never going to happen.
Fairy tales don't exist in Ruthless Academy.
Only nightmares.
I turn away before she can respond, before I can see the pity in her expression, before I can feel anything else.
The aisle stretches before me—that narrow corridor between counter and wall, throat-like and suffocating—and I walk through it with my head held high and my heart slowly bleeding out inside my chest.
My footsteps echo in the empty space.
One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four.
Even numbers.
Safe.
Except nothing feels safe anymore.
The outlet I've clung to for five years—those letters, that connection, that fragile thread of hope—has just been severed. And in its absence, I can feel the darkness creeping in. The despair I've held at bay through sheer force of will, through counting and tapping and dancing until my feet bleed.
What do I do now?
What do I hold onto?
What keeps me from finally, completely, falling apart?
My toe catches on something.
I look down, distracted, and realize one of my shoe ribbons has come untied. The pink one—the ghost shoe, the soft one, the reminder of who I used to be.
Of course, I think bitterly.Yet again, something else is falling apart.
I crouch to retie it, my fingers moving through the familiar pattern: loop, wrap, pull, tuck. Eight motions. Even number.Safe.
The door opens.
I don't see it happen—my eyes are fixed on my shoe, on the ribbon, on the small task I can actually control—but I hear it. The creak of hinges, the rush of outside air, the soft sound of footsteps approaching.
Then I stand.
And collide directly with someone's chest.
The impact sends me stumbling backward, my balance—usually impeccable, honed through years of ballet—failing me completely. My arms pinwheel. My feet scramble for purchase. The world tilts dangerously?—
A hand catches me.
Strong fingers wrap around my wrist, grip firm but not bruising, steadying me with an ease that speaks of someone who's used to catching things. Used to being fast. Used to moving before others even realize something's wrong.
