The words land like punches to the pit of my gut.
Like fists.
Like the truth I try not to think about—that maybe they're right, maybe S.W. isn't real, maybe I've been pouring my heart into a void that was never going to answer back.
Forty-seven days.
No response.
Maybe he's dead…or he forgot…or…he never existed at all?—
I giggle.
The sound escapes before I can stop it—high and bright and just unhinged enough to make all four of them take a step back.
Good.
Be scared.
You should be.
I don't say anything. Don't look at them. Don't give them the satisfaction of seeing how deep their words cut.
I just keep walking.
One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four.
The back exit is ahead—heavy metal door leading to the outdoor area behind the dance building. I push through it, stepping into air that smells like rain and concrete and the promise of violence.
The sky is cloudy.
Not just cloudy—dark. Heavy grey masses rolling in from the east, blocking out what little afternoon sun might have filtered through. The air pressure has dropped, making my ears feel full and my skin feel tight.
It's going to rain.
Of course it is.
The universe wouldn't let me have a nice day. That would require something resembling mercy.
I frown up at the clouds, calculating. My costume can handle light rain—the corset is treated leather, the tulle will dry—but a serious downpour would ruin everything. Would ruin the audition, the one chance I have at something resembling escape.
Please, I think, bargaining with a god I stopped believing in a decade ago.Just hold off for a few hours. Let me have this.
"Seraphine!"
The voice comes from behind me—adult, authoritative, vaguely familiar. I spin on my toe, the movement instinctive, and find one of the dance advisors approaching from the building.
Ms. Chen.
She's one of the kinder ones—one of the few staff members who looks at me and sees a dancer instead of a diagnosis. Her face is drawn, worried, carrying the expression of someone about to deliver bad news.
My stomach drops.
No. No, no, no?—
I skip over to her anyway, because stopping would mean acknowledging the dread already pooling in my gut. The movement is bright, cheerful, completely at odds with the panic building behind my ribs.
"Ms. Chen!" I chirp, bowing my head in a gesture of respect that's only partially sarcastic. "What can I do for you on this delightfully ominous afternoon?"
