Jax

  I get to the theatre room early–earlier than I need to. The kind of early where the hallway lights still flicker awake and the silence feels thick, untouched. THe air inside is cool, leftover from the night before, and smells faintly of dust and old velvet curtains. It's the kind of smell that clings to the walls, to the faded stage drapes, to memory.

  It’s quiet. Perfect.

  I toss my script onto the tech table in the corner, the pages fluttering slightly as they land. My fingers flick through my playlist, looking for something with energy—something fast, loud, alive. A beat drops, sharp and bright, and my muscles tense with anticipation.

  Then I move.

  My choreography. My rules. Every beat is mine to command—each spin, each slide, each breath between the rhythm. My sneakers squeak faintly against the scuffed wooden floor, the only sound besides the music pounding in my ears. The rest of the world? Gone. This is where I disappear. This is where I live.

  I don’t even hear the door open.

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  The slow clap snaps me out of it—deliberate, echoing, just loud enough to jolt me mid-turn. I stop dead, breath catching in my throat, and whip around.

  Milli stands in the doorway, leaning casually against the frame like she’s been there a while. Her blonde hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders, catching the light in that effortless way it always seems to. Her brown eyes are wide, not mocking, not smug—just surprised. And maybe a little impressed.

  “I didn’t know you dance,” she says, voice soft, teasing around the edges.

  “I—uh—” My heart’s pounding like I just ran a mile. “I can explain—”

  She raises an eyebrow and shakes her head, a small smile tugging at her lips. “I don’t need one.”

  “Just…” I take a step back, rubbing the back of my arm, avoiding her eyes. The flush crawls up my neck fast. “Don’t tell anyone, okay? Please.”

  She looks at me like I’ve just said something completely backwards. “Why not? You’re amazing.”

  I swallow hard, eyes dropping to the floor. “Because I only dance for me. It's the one thing that’s just…mine. I don’t want it to turn into something people pick apart or expect or—whatever, I don’t want to lose it.”

  For a second, she doesn’t say anything. Just watches me like she’s seeing something different now—like maybe this version of me rewrites the one she thought she knew.

  Then she steps forward, quiet but sure, and lays a hand gently on my shoulder. Her touch is warm, steady. Real.

  “Alright,” she says softly. “I get it. I won’t tell. Promise.”