Milli

  Saturday afternoon, sunlight spills through my window, the kind that makes everything look a little softer than it really is. My notebook is open on my desk, but I’ve been staring at the same sentence for ten minutes. My brain keeps drifting back to the theatre room–to Jax.

  The way he moved earlier didn’t look like something from a class or routine someone taught him. It was too fluid, too personal. Every step seemed like it came straight from whatever he was feeling in that moment. He didn’t just dance–he told a story without saying a word.

  I can’t stop thinking about it. The confidence in his movements, the way his expression shifted with the rhythm–and then, the look on his face when he realized I was watching. Like I’d seen something I wasn’t supposed to.

  He said he only dances for himself, and I believe him. But part of me feels lucky–like I got to glimpse a version of him no one else gets to see. A memory of the first day of training comes to my mind, a laugh bubbles up out of my throat. It seems so long ago. I was one minute late, so he held up a fan and fluffy white snow, to blow into my face. That memory will probably never leave me.

  A soft knock on my door snaps me out of my thoughts. “Milli, are we going or not?” April’s voice calls through, impatient as always.

  “Yeah, yeah, I’m coming.” I say, snapping my notebook shut and grabbing my keys.

  When I step into the hallway, April’s already waiting, her gym bag slung over her shoulder, blonde ponytail bouncing with every fidgety step. She’s twelve and somehow already has more energy than humanly possible.

  In the car, she hums along to the radio, completely oblivious to the storm of thoughts in my head.

  “You’re quiet,” she says suddenly, glancing at me from the passenger seat. “You thinking about your play thing?”

  “Something like that,” I say with a small smile.

  She grins, satisfied with her own guess, and goes back to humming.

  By the time I drop her off at the gym and watch her jog inside, I realize I’m still smiling–because for the first time, thinking about Jax doesn’t feel confusing. It just feels nice.

  The gym smells faintly of chalk and rubber mats–that oddly comforting mix of sweat, effort, and focus. The rhythmic thump of feet hitting the spring floor fills the space, mixed with the echo of a coach’s voice calling out corrections.

  Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

  I find a spot on the bleachers halfway up, close enough to see April but far enough to stay out of the parents’ chatter. She’s already stretching with her group, her hair pulled back tight, her face set in that determined little frown she gets before she nails a new routine.

  I pull my script from my bag, smoothing the slightly crumpled pages. I trace a line of dialogue with my thumb, reading it under my breath.

  But my mind drifts–back to this morning. The way Jax’s movements synced with the music so perfectly it was like the beat lived inside of him. I can still see the look in his eyes right before he noticed me, that rare mix of peace and vulnerability.

  I try to shake the thought off, flipping to the next page of the script, but it lingers like a song stuck in my head.

  Down on the floor, April sticks a landing and beams when her coach claps. I can’t help smiling. She catches my eye and waves, and I wave back with my pen still in hand.

  “Go April!” I call, and she grins wider before running to join the next group.

  I glance back at the script, the paper fluttering slightly in the air-conditioned breeze. My lines blur for a second as my mind wanders again–wondering what Jax is up to, if he’s rehearsing, or more likely more figure skating training.

  The café is buzzing with weekend chatter–the hiss of the espresso machine, the clink of spoons against ceramic cups, someone’s playlist humming low from a speaker near the counter. I sit squeezed between Alice and Avery in our usual booth, the one by the window where sunlight hits just right around midafternoon.

  Alice is mid-story, waving her straw around dramatically. “–and then he tripped trying to jump the fence. Like full-on faceplant, Milli. I thought I was going to die laughing.”

  Avery nearly snorts her drink. “Classic Hudson. Tries to be mysterious, ends up bleeding.”

  They both laugh, and I do too–mostly because it’s impossible not to around them–but my mind’s been drifting all afternoon.

  Jax.

  It’s ridiculous, really. We barely said much after that moment in the theatre room. But the image of him dancing won’t leave my head–that focus in his eyes, the effortless way he moved. It was like he belonged to the music. Like he didn’t care who saw him–until he realized someone did.

  “Earth to Milli?” Alice snaps her fingers in front of my face, smirking. “You zoned out again. You thinking about someone?”

  I roll my eyes. “No. Just tired.”

  “Uh-huh. Sure,” Avery says with a knowing grin.

  I poke at my hot chocolate with the straw. “It’s not like that. He’s just…interesting.”

  “‘Interesting’ is code for cute,” Alice teases leaning in.

  “Okay, maybe a little cute,” I admit, and they both gasp like I’ve confessed a state secret.

  “Finally!” Avery laughs. “Our sass queen has fallen!”

  I shake my head, trying not to smile, but it’s useless. Their laughter is contagious, and I find myself laughing with them–though a small part of me stays quiet, holding onto that image of Jax moving across the stage, lost in his own world.