HANNAH
The days blurred into weeks as the countdown to my performance edged closer. Every muscle in my body ached from endless rehearsals, every beat of the music engrained so deeply in my mind that it played even in my sleep. This performance had to be perfect—it wasn’t just for me; it was for my team, my career, and, I realized, maybe for a piece of myself that was desperate to prove I could do this on my own.
Yet, despite my focus, a part of me couldn’t shake the thought of Jeremy.
Since our last awkward exchange at my parents’ house, the space between us had grown wider, colder. I hadn’t heard from him, and I hadn’t reached out either. I told myself I was too busy to think about him, but late at night, when the city lights painted my apartment in muted hues, his face lingered in my thoughts.
I didn’t know what compelled me to go to his house that morning. Maybe it was the thought that this performance was the culmination of everything I had worked for, or maybe it was because, despite everything, I still wanted him to be there.
My heart pounded as I approached his door, clutching a small handwritten invitation. The familiar path leading up to his house brought back memories I wasn’t sure I was ready to confront. I took a deep breath and knocked.
The door opened, and there he was—tall, broad, and as intimidatingly handsome as ever. His expression was unreadable, but the way his brows lifted slightly told me he hadn’t expected to see me.
“Hannah,” he said simply, his tone neutral.
“Hey,” I replied, forcing a smile that felt shaky at best. “I—uh—I wanted to give you this.” I held out the invitation.
He didn’t take it immediately, his eyes searching my face as though trying to piece together why I was standing there. Finally, he reached for the envelope, his fingers brushing mine briefly.
“What’s this?” he asked, his voice low.
“It’s for my performance,” I said, shifting on my feet. “Next week. I thought... maybe you’d like to come.”
Jeremy’s lips pressed into a thin line, and for a moment, I thought he might say something. But instead, he just nodded, slipping the invitation into his back pocket without opening it.
“I’ll see,” he said noncommittally.
My chest tightened at his tone, but I nodded, pretending I wasn’t affected. “No pressure. I just thought—” I stopped myself, shaking my head. “Anyway, I should get going.”
“Hannah—”
I paused, waiting for him to finish, but he didn’t. He just stood there, his eyes heavy with something I couldn’t quite name.
“Good luck,” he said finally.
“Thanks,” I murmured, my voice barely audible.
I turned and walked away before I could let myself linger. My heart ached with every step, but I told myself it didn’t matter. Whether he showed up or not, I was determined to make my performance perfect.
****
The rest of the week was a whirlwind. The studio buzzed with energy as we put the final touches on our routine. Everyone was excited, their anticipation palpable, but I felt strangely detached. I threw myself into every movement, every count of the music, ignoring the ache in my ankle and the fatigue that crept into my bones.
On the night of the performance, as I stood backstage, surrounded by the chaos of costumes and last-minute adjustments, I felt a strange calm wash over me. This was my moment, and no matter who was or wasn’t in the audience, I was going to give it everything I had.
“Ready, Hannah?” Dylan asked, his voice cutting through my thoughts.
I nodded, taking a deep breath. “Yeah. I’m ready.”
As the curtain rose and the music began, I let everything else fall away. The lights were blinding, the crowd a distant hum, but none of it mattered. For those precious moments, it was just me and the dance—a perfect union of movement and emotion.
When it was over, the applause was thunderous. I bowed with the rest of the team, my chest heaving with exertion and a surge of pride.
As I scanned the crowd, searching for a familiar face, my heart sank slightly when I didn’t see him. I told myself it was fine—that I hadn’t expected him to come anyway. But deep down, a small part of me had hoped.
Still, as I stepped off the stage, I held my head high. This was my moment, and nothing could take that away from me.
The performance wasn’t just a dance—it was a transformation.
I was the Black Swan. Every step, every turn, every arch of my body was deliberate and exact. The character was alluring, seductive, a siren cloaked in shadows and elegance. My movements were sharp but fluid, a dangerous balance of power and grace. My arms mimicked the delicate flutter of wings, my expressions carrying the weight of longing and despair.
As the music swelled, I let myself sink into the role completely. My body twisted and turned, defying gravity, seducing the audience with every move. There was a darkness to the character that I embraced, a vulnerability hidden beneath the allure. The dance demanded everything from me—my strength, my control, my emotion—and I gave it willingly.
The final spin came to a halt, my chest heaving as the last note faded. For a second, the theater was silent, and then the applause erupted. It was deafening.
I stood there, staring out at the crowd, the spotlight blinding me but the energy washing over me like a wave. People were on their feet, clapping, cheering, some even whistling. It was everything I had worked for, everything I had dreamed of. But as I bowed, surrounded by my team, I felt a hollow ache settle deep inside me.
After the performance, we celebrated. The team was elated, toasting to our success at a trendy little restaurant nearby. Everyone was laughing, reliving moments from the stage, the adrenaline still coursing through them. I smiled and nodded along, raising my glass when necessary, but my heart wasn’t in it.
“Hannah, you were incredible,” Dylan said, his voice warm with admiration.
“Thanks,” I replied, forcing a smile. “You were amazing too.”
But even as the compliments poured in, I felt detached, as if I were watching it all unfold from a distance. The weight of the evening pressed down on me, and the noise, the lights, the people—it was all too much.
Eventually, I excused myself, claiming exhaustion. No one questioned it; they all knew how much effort I had poured into the performance. Dylan offered to walk me back, but I declined, assuring him I was fine.
****
The streets were quiet as I walked back to my apartment, the cool night air wrapping around me like a shroud. The city, normally alive and buzzing, felt subdued under the dim glow of streetlights.
I hugged my coat tighter around myself, my heels clicking against the pavement. My thoughts drifted as I walked, the high of the performance giving way to an emptiness I couldn’t quite explain. I had achieved what I had worked so hard for, but the victory felt hollow.
Images of Jeremy flickered in my mind—his sharp gaze, the warmth of his touch, the way he had kissed me that night in the dark. I shook my head, trying to push the memories away, but they clung to me, stubborn and unrelenting.
As I reached my apartment building, I paused at the entrance, staring up at the windows. The apartment felt like a stranger to me now, a place that had once been a refuge but now felt cold and unwelcoming.
I climbed the stairs slowly, the ache in my legs a reminder of the night’s exertion. When I finally stepped inside, the silence was deafening. I kicked off my shoes, letting them fall haphazardly by the door, and made my way to the couch.
Sitting there in the quiet, I stared out the window at the city below. The celebration, the applause, the lights—all of it felt like a dream. And now, in the stillness of my apartment, reality crept back in.
I thought about knocking on Jeremy’s door that morning, about the way he had looked at me, the way he had kissed me, the way he had ignored me.
And as I sat there, the ache in my chest grew heavier. Because no matter how hard I tried to focus on the dance, on my career, on anything else, my thoughts always circled back to him.
Jeremy wasn’t just a distraction; he was something much harder to ignore. Something I wasn’t sure I could face.
*****