The stage lights always felt too bright at first.
Even in rehearsals, when the seats were mostly empty and the music was slightly too low, Elena still had to squint the first time she stepped under them. It wasn't fear. It wasn't nerves. It was just… pressure. The weight of being seen.
But tonight, for once, the light didn't feel heavy.
She adjusted her hair, tucked the last loose strand behind her ear, and took her place at center.
Everyone was buzzing—final blocking before the inter-university showcase. Dancers laughed, the choreographer clapped sharply, giving cues with barely concealed anxiety. It was the kind of chaos she was used to. The kind she usually had to armor up for.
But her thoughts weren't really here.
They kept drifting—back to the street, the Civic, the low hum of the WRX's engine.Back to him.
She didn't mean for them to.
But they did.
________________________________________________________________________________
The music started.
She moved.
One step, two—fluid, precise, controlled.
She knew the piece by heart. Her body took over before her mind could catch up. But somewhere between the turns and the lifts, she imagined for a moment—just a second—that maybe Alexander had stayed.
Not likely.
But the thought stayed.
She pictured him near the back, not clapping, just… watching. Quiet. Present.
Like he always was.
Don't be stupid, she told herself.
He dropped her off. That was it. He wasn't one of those guys who lingered or made a show of things. He didn't chase. And he sure as hell didn't sit through ballet performances.
Still… as she hit her final pose, something tightened in her chest.
Not regret.
Just… want.
Want for what, she couldn't quite say.
________________________________________________________________________________
Backstage after the rehearsal, the air was thick with relief. People joked. Someone handed her a bottle of water. Nina actually smiled—which felt rarer than an eclipse.
"You killed it out there," Naomi said, slipping her phone into her bag. "Maybe the Civic's death was a good omen."
Elena laughed, grateful, but her voice was a little distant.
"Anyone waiting for you?" another dancer teased, bumping her hip gently.
"No," she answered quickly. Too quickly.
Then she added, "Not really."
________________________________________________________________________________
Her feet hurt. Her shoulders were sore. But her fingers itched for her phone.
By the time she was sitting on the edge of the stage, untying her slippers, she gave in.
Elena (9:08 PM):
> Made it through alive. Thanks again for the rescue. I owe you another one.
She didn't expect a reply right away. He didn't text like most people. He wasn't the type to rapid-fire back and forth, flooding the conversation with emojis or filler words.
She liked that.
It made every reply feel like he meant it.
When the screen lit up five minutes later, her heart kicked just a little.
Alexander:
> Proud of the patient. And you. Told you you'd be fine.
Elena stared at the words longer than she should've.
They weren't romantic. Not really.
But they were real.
And for now, that was more than enough.