The studio was quiet now.
The music had stopped. The lights were off. Costumes packed away, hair ties snapped off, water bottles emptied and forgotten under chairs. Everyone else had left in bursts of laughter and post-rehearsal adrenaline, voices echoing in the hallway as they spilled out into the night.
Elena sat alone on the edge of the raised practice floor, still in her leotard and sweats, hair loosened from its tight bun, legs sore and bare feet crossed at the ankles. Her body was tired—but her mind wouldn't sit still.
She stared out the tall windows that lined the far wall.
The same windows she had glanced at—three separate times—during the performance.
Not because she was looking for him.
Just… wondering.
She never expected him to stay.
She told herself that again.
He wasn't the type. He didn't linger. He didn't chase down moments that didn't belong to him.
And yet, part of her—some small, curled-up part she couldn't talk back into submission—had hoped he would.
Just for a minute.Just long enough to see her in the place where she felt most herself.
Not performing for people. Not standing in a party crowd. Not stranded beside a dying Civic.
But here.
Moving.
Present.
Alive.
She thought maybe… if he saw that version of her, he'd understand something no one else did. Something she couldn't explain with words or even with all their easy little texts.
But he hadn't stayed.
And the ache that followed wasn't sharp.
It was quiet.
_________________________________________________________________________________________
She reached for her phone out of instinct. The screen glowed.
His message was still there:
Proud of the patient. And you.Told you you'd be fine.
She reread it more than once.
It was kind. It was real.
And that made it harder.
Because she could feel that he cared—but in a way that kept its distance. He showed up when she needed him, but disappeared the moment it stopped being about necessity.
He gave her space. Respect. No pressure.
But part of her… didn't want that space anymore.
Not all the time.
And she didn't know what to do with that.
_________________________________________________________________________________________
Her thumb hovered over his name.
She didn't text him.
Not tonight.
Instead, she pulled on her hoodie, slung her dance bag over one shoulder, and left the studio with her steps just a little slower than usual.
Outside, the air was cool and still. Streetlights hummed. A few students passed by, wrapped in conversation, unaware of the small ache following behind her like a shadow.
She took the long way back to her dorm.
Not because she was avoiding anything.
But because she needed the walk. Needed to let go of the shape of him in her mind.
Just enough to breathe.