For a moment, I just stood there. I breathed, listened, felt the pulse of the song in the soles of my feet. I took a deep breath, and then I moved.
I was tentative at first — one foot sliding back, one arm lifting. A careful turn of my head, my shoulders, my torso. I let my body ease into it instead of demanding anything from it, following instinct over choreography, feeling for what was still there after weeks of stiffness and fear and loss.
My wrist protested immediately.
It wasn’t a sharp pain or anything that stopped me, but it was a soft reminder.
I’m still healing.
I moved with intention, taking slow steps, feeling a roll through my spine. I swept my arm, finding I couldn’t quite finish the way I used to, but I found a way to make it beautiful.
God, I had missed this.
I knew that before now. I felt the ache every time I stood on the sideline during a game, watching Marcus and Darcy and therest of the squad performing. I felt it in practice when I marked the dance with them but couldn’t fully perform it.
But this was what I’d missed most — the way music could climb inside me and pull emotion out through movement. The way dancing had always felt like speaking in a language no one had ever had to teach me.
The lyrics wrapped around me, and I let them, smiling to myself as I imagined Braden did hearing this song and thinking of us. I thought of all the ways Braden had unraveled me from the start. How nothing about him had ever felt temporary, even when we’d both tried to force it into that shape.
I turned, softer this time, letting my body follow the ache in the song.
My chest tightened.
I thought about the first time I’d seen him truly crack open in front of me. The way he held so much so tightly, as if letting go of any of it might shatter him. I thought about the version of him who’d spent so much of his life putting everyone else first.
And then I thought about me.
About how maybe I wasn’t all that different.
Maybe I’d spent so much of my life chasing some glittering, far-off version of success that I’d never stopped to ask whether I even wanted it — or if I just wanted to be worthy of it.
My feet carried me across the floor, my body loosening with each count, each breath.
My parents flashed into my mind — their sympathetic smiles, the way they’d exchange looks whenever I told them my next move. But for the first time, I saw it all under a different lens.
Maybe I’d taken all of that and sharpened it into something crueler.
Maybe I’d been the one holding myself to impossible standards.
Maybe it wasn’t them. MaybeIwas the one who had decided that if I couldn’t be exceptional, then I was failing.
Maybe I was the one who had looked at dance and told myself it wasn’t enough because it didn’t sound impressive at dinner parties, or fit neatly into some glossy definition of success.
My throat burned.
Because what if it had always been the answer?
What if the thing I’d been searching for in all these almosts and pivots and side roads had been here all along, waiting for me to choose it?
I spun, slower this time, the room blurring softly around me before I caught myself and laughed under my breath. My wrist throbbed faintly when I extended through it, and instead of fighting the limitation, I let it shape me. Let it soften the line. Let it tell the truth — that I was not who I was six weeks ago.
I was also not who I had been at twenty-five.
And maybe that wasn’t something to mourn.
Maybe it was something to honor.
I opened my eyes then, finding Braden leaned against the mirrors.God, he was always so fucking beautiful. His strong body. His warm eyes. The way he could hold so much vulnerability and strength together. He had his arms folded, one leg crossed over the one carrying his weight, and his eyes were locked on me in wonder.
