HANNAH
I sat cross-legged on my bed, the soft glow of the bedside lamp illuminating the pages of the book I wasn’t actually reading. The novel was open in my lap, but my attention was locked on my phone, where the screen buzzed intermittently with messages from my managers.
You need to focus on recovery, Hannah. Take it seriously.
Your role is still secure, but we can’t move forward until you’re ready.
No rehearsals until the doctor clears you. Please don’t push yourself. This is for the best.
I sighed, running a hand through my hair. The guilt weighed on me heavier with every buzz of my phone. I knew they were right. I knew I should rest. But resting felt like failing.
I glanced at my ankle, now less swollen but still in a brace. The reminder of my injury, the betrayal of my body, sat there mocking me. If you hadn’t pushed so hard, this wouldn’t have happened, a small voice in my head chided.
Still, I couldn’t stop the nagging thought: they were all waiting for me to get back on my feet—literally. My dance partner, the cast, the crew. And here I was, lying in bed in a quiet house that didn’t even feel entirely like home anymore.
Another buzz. I reluctantly picked up my phone and opened the messages.
The Black Swan role is yours, but if you don’t take care of yourself, someone else will take over.
My stomach twisted. The thought of losing the role sent a jolt of panic through me. But what could I do? My body wasn’t ready, and they weren’t letting me near a studio until I had “proper clearance.” Yet I couldn’t shake the feeling that I was letting everyone down.
A soft knock on the door pulled me from my spiraling thoughts.
“Come in,” I called, setting the phone aside quickly, as if hiding the evidence of my guilt.
My mom poked her head in, her face warm and gentle. “Dinner’s ready downstairs. Are you coming, or should I bring you something?”
I offered her a small smile. “I’ll be down in a bit. Thanks, Mom.”
She nodded but didn’t leave right away. Instead, she stepped into the room, her hands clasped together in a way that told me she had something to say. “You’ve been on that phone all day, sweetheart. Work stuff?”
I nodded, not trusting myself to elaborate.
“Hannah,” she said softly, sitting on the edge of my bed, “I know you. You’re pushing yourself too hard, aren’t you?”
I laughed lightly, though it sounded hollow even to my ears. “I’m not pushing myself. I’m literally doing nothing, Mom. Just resting, like they want.”
“You’re worrying yourself sick,” she countered, her voice tender but firm. “That’s just as bad.”
I looked down at my hands, fidgeting with the edge of the blanket. “It’s just... they need me to get better. The whole production is on pause because of me. I hate that feeling.”
My mom reached over, placing her hand over mine. “Sweetheart, you can’t control everything. Sometimes, your body just needs time to heal. No one blames you for this. But you have to stop blaming yourself.”
I nodded, even though her words didn’t quite sink in. “I’ll try.”
She stayed for a moment longer, studying my face like she was searching for the little girl who used to run around this house without a care in the world. Finally, she gave my hand a squeeze and stood up. “Come down soon, okay? I made your favorite.”
“Okay,” I murmured as she left, closing the door gently behind her.
I leaned back against the headboard, staring at the ceiling as the silence of the room pressed in. My mom was right. I was worrying myself sick, but I didn’t know how to stop.
My phone buzzed again, and I grabbed it instinctively, guilt flaring as I read the newest message:
The investors are asking for updates. They want to know when we’ll resume rehearsals.
I dropped the phone on the bed, letting out a frustrated sigh.
What if my body didn’t heal in time? What if I let everyone down? What if I lost everything I’d worked so hard for?
I pulled the blanket over my legs, suddenly feeling cold despite the warm night. My head was spinning with what-ifs, each one louder than the last.
To distract myself, I reached for the book on my lap and tried to focus on the words, but they blurred together. My mind refused to quiet down.
The room felt suffocating, even though it was quiet and still. I stared at the window, the faint outline of the trees outside swaying gently in the breeze. Somewhere out there, people were living their lives without the crushing weight of expectations or the fear of failure.
I closed my eyes, letting out a slow breath. For the first time in a long time, I let myself wish for a simpler life—one where success didn’t come with so much pressure, one where I didn’t feel so alone.
And as I opened my eyes again, staring at the faint glow of my phone screen, I realized that rest wasn’t just what my body needed. It was what my heart needed, too.
****
When I finally made it downstairs, the familiar scent of roasted vegetables and chicken wafted through the air. My stomach growled, reminding me I hadn’t eaten much all day. I paused at the doorway to the kitchen, adjusting my brace carefully as I leaned on the wall for balance.
And there he was.
Jeremy.
He was crouched on the floor, tools spread out around him, tinkering with something that looked like it belonged in a hardware store—or maybe a physics lab. For a brief moment, it felt like I had stepped back in time. The scene was so eerily familiar: him focused on some project, his hands deftly working as if they had a mind of their own.
But this time, we were different. We weren’t the kids who used to bicker over snacks or share quiet conversations late at night. We weren’t even the tentative friends we had been before I left. Now, we were little more than strangers occupying the same space.
He didn’t look up when I entered, and I didn’t say anything either. I shuffled to the dining table, trying not to disturb him as I sat down and served myself.
The silence stretched between us, thick and heavy. My mom had left the table set for two, but I couldn’t tell if she had meant for us to sit together. Judging by how quickly she disappeared upstairs, carrying a basket of laundry, she had clearly left us to fend for ourselves.
I ate quietly, focusing on my plate, each bite feeling like a small distraction from the tension in the room. My fork scraped against the ceramic plate, the sound unbearably loud in the stillness.
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see Jeremy working. His hair was shorter now, but there was still a slight curl at the ends. His shoulders were broader, his hands more calloused, and there was a confidence to his movements that hadn’t been there before. It was unnerving how much he’d changed and, at the same time, how much he hadn’t.
I tried not to think about it.
“Still here, huh?” His voice broke the silence, deep and gruff, though he didn’t look up from his work.
I swallowed the bite in my mouth and replied flatly, “It’s my house.”
He snorted, finally glancing at me. His blue eyes were as piercing as ever, but there was something guarded about them now, a distance I couldn’t quite place. “Didn’t seem like it for the last five years.”
The words hit like a slap, sharp and uncalled for. But I didn’t flinch. I’d been hurt by worse things lately.
I set my fork down with deliberate care, keeping my voice calm. “Well, I’m here now. That should count for something, shouldn’t it?”
He shrugged, his attention already back on his project. “Guess so.”
I stared at him, waiting for him to say more, to explain why he felt the need to dig into me like that. But he didn’t.
Instead, I asked, “What are you working on?”
“Something for your dad,” he replied without looking up. “The garage door’s motor is shot. Figured I’d fix it since no one else bothered.”
The jab was subtle, but it was there. I pressed my lips together and leaned back in my chair, determined not to rise to the bait. “Well, thanks for doing that,” I said evenly.
He glanced at me again, his eyes narrowing slightly as if he didn’t trust my calmness. “Why are you even here, Hannah?”
My heart clenched at the question, but I kept my face neutral. “I needed a break.”
“A break from what?”
“From everything,” I said simply, picking up my fork again.
He let out a low hum, almost a scoff. “Right. Must be nice to just run away when things get tough.”
I froze, the fork halfway to my mouth. My fingers tightened around the handle as I carefully set it back down. My voice was quiet but steady when I spoke. “I didn’t run away.”
“No?” he said, finally meeting my gaze. “You left. Your parents, this house, everything. You didn’t even look back.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat and leaned forward slightly, meeting his stare head-on. “I didn’t run away, Jeremy. I moved on. There’s a difference.”
His jaw tensed, his hands stilling for a moment before he resumed his work. “If that’s what you need to tell yourself.”
The room felt heavier with every word. I pushed my plate away, my appetite gone.
“Why are you so angry with me?” I asked softly, genuinely curious.
He didn’t answer right away. When he finally spoke, his voice was quieter but no less sharp. “I’m not angry. Just saying it like it is.”
I exhaled, shaking my head. “You don’t know everything, Jeremy. You don’t know what I’ve been through or why I left.”
“Then tell me,” he said, looking up at me again. “Because from where I’m standing, it just looks like you couldn’t wait to get out of here.”
I stared at him, my chest tightening with the weight of everything I wanted to say but couldn’t. Instead, I stood up, the chair scraping loudly against the floor. “Enjoy fixing the motor,” I said, my voice clipped.
He watched me as I left the room, his gaze burning into my back. I didn’t look back. I couldn’t.
As I reached the doorway, I paused, gripping the edge of the frame tightly. My heart was pounding—not from anger, but from something I couldn’t quite name. I turned slightly, glancing over my shoulder. Jeremy was still crouched on the floor, his hands busy but his eyes following me like a hawk, sharp and assessing.
I bit my lip, hesitating. I didn’t want to ask, but I didn’t have much of a choice. “Jeremy.”
His hands stilled, his head tilting slightly as he looked at me. “What?”
I shifted my weight, the brace on my ankle making the movement awkward. “Can you help me with something?”
His brows furrowed, suspicion flickering in his expression. “Help you with what?”
I shrugged, trying to seem nonchalant. “It’s just... something. Upstairs.”
He didn’t respond immediately. His gaze lingered on me for a moment longer, his blue eyes unreadable. Finally, he sighed, setting his tools aside as he stood up. He dusted off his hands and gave me a pointed look.
“Fine,” he said, his voice laced with a familiar mix of irritation and curiosity. “Lead the way.”
****