I rolled my eyes and slung my bag over my shoulder. "Good for you. Anyway, I have to go now."
"Wait, Junie."
I froze, noticing his hand reaching out, hesitating midair. My eyes caught the tattoo of the sun on his wrist—our little secret, a reminder that I was his sunshine. I didn't turn fully toward him. "What?"
"I know you won't believe me... but I do miss you, and I do love you. I'll be patient."
"Suit yourself," I said, and walked away without looking back. I left the conversation with Aaron feeling oddly lighter because the boundaries were there now, solid and unshakable. Civil, but not close.
The air outside was warm, the late-afternoon light slanting gold through the trees. Instead of heading straight home, I found myself wandering toward the small park near the studio, a canvas tote on my shoulder and my notebook tucked inside.
I picked a bench under a sycamore and let my mind drift. I had a dozen errands I could run—picking up fabric for costumes, grabbing extra water bottles, maybe some props—but my pen itched more than my feet. I opened my journal and began sketching out the bones of the upcoming performance.
The story wanted to be about heartache and survival. About falling apart and then rebuilding into something sharper, braver, freer. I could see flashes of movement already—a slow, aching duet with Leo, representing loss, before the students would rush in like a tidal wave of light. I thought about pairing it with a poem I loved, something with imagery of storms breaking and skies clearing, where the body became both the wound and the cure.
My phone buzzed, snapping me out of it. May. Followed quickly by Marchy's name lighting up too. I laughed and answered on speaker.
"Okay," May's voice rang out, "spill. What exactly happened at your dad's? You've been all mysterious since then."
"Mysterious?" I scoffed. "I just... processed a lot. Less crying into my pillow, more sitting on docks staring at the horizon like I'm in a sad indie film."
"Oooh," Marchy said, "did you at least get a soundtrack? Acoustic guitar? Waves crashing?"
We laughed, trading jokes and updates. They told me about their latest adventures, Marchy's failed attempt at paddleboarding that ended with a heroic rescue by a very unheroic teenager in a kayak and May's painting exhibition that accidentally turned into a minor gallery scandal because someone mistook her abstract work for "satirical portraits."
Then May's voice softened, almost like she'd forgotten we were mid-conversation. "You know... I still think about that time before my first exhibition, when I couldn't afford half the supplies I needed. I was panicking, ready to back out. And then Aaron just showed up with everything, canvases, paints, brushes like it was no big deal. When I asked him why, he just shrugged and said,'You're June's friend, so you're my family and my friend too."
A flicker of old warmth passed through me. Thathadbeen the man I loved once. Thought I loved forever, but memory was a tricky liar, always leaving out the cracks in the frame.
"Yeah," I said, exhaling. "He can be a good person but that doesn't mean I'm going back."
"Not even a tiny maybe?" Marchy teased.
"Nope. I'm learning not to yell at him when I see him, and that's already progress. I'd rather put my energy into the choreography right now."
"I will never understand how he did what he did," May murmured, leaning forward on her elbows. "I mean... this is someone I would've sworn on. I would've put money on his love for you. He looked at you like you were... it. Like you were the only person in the room. And now, knowing what he did—" She broke off, shaking her head. "It doesn't make sense."
Marchy let out a small, humorless laugh, "Well... you'd be surprised. A lot of peopleseemso in love—post pictures, hold hands, give each other these perfect smiles—but you never really know what's going on in their heads. Maybe they're restless. Maybe they're scared. Maybe they just... don't know how to sit still with happiness. You can't see someone's thoughts, you can't crawl into their feelings, so you just have to take their word for it. And sometimes? Their word is worth nothing."
May then saidwith a grin. "And what about Moonboy?"
I groaned. "Oh my god—doeseveryonecall him that?"
They both burst out laughing. "Yes!"
"So... what about him?" May pressed.
I hesitated, then said, "He's a wonderful man. He deserves my all. So until I'm sure I'm ready to give that and start something serious, until I'm all in, I'm not going to string him along."
May's smile softened. "Good for you."
"Yes, anyway," I cut in sharply, forcing a smile that didn't reach my eyes. "For now, I want to focus on the upcoming performance." I tapped my notebook. "I already have an idea for the choreography."
They didn't push. Instead, we drifted back into laughter and banter, the way we always did. And when the call ended, I sat in the park a little longer, pen scratching across paper, mapping out the story I wanted to tell onstage—a story where survival wasn't quiet, but fierce.
The following days and weeks passed as usual, coffee in the morning, rehearsals in the afternoons, falling asleep with aching muscles. We were deep in performance prep now: the stage crew marking positions with neon tape, the lighting team testing cues, the costume rack in the corner spilling sequins and silk. Aaron was everywhere, hauling set pieces, fetching extra rosin for the floor, adjusting the fog machine when it hissed too much.
He kept trying to pull me out for lunch or dinner. Every time, I said no. Today was no different. He caught me after rehearsal, hair damp with sweat, smiling hopefully as he asked again.
