"Ugh, I donotneed this immature drama right now. I have a big performance, for God's sake. I'm leaving. Bye."
I hung up before he could answer. My mind kept circling the same maddening loop—Aaron's excuses, Mora's smug comments, the fact that I even had to deal with this right now of all weeks. I pulled out my phone again and called Leo.
"Fire Mora," I said, not bothering with a hello.
There was a pause, long enough for me to hear the faint background noise of the crew shifting sets, then Leo's voice came through, surprisingly calm. "You know what? I'm on board. I'm sorry, June. I was thinking about the performance and not your feelings, but you matter more. I'll take care of it."
My shoulders eased slightly, for a beat, neither of us spoke. Then Leo exhaled and said, "Consider it done."
*******
Once I arrived to the studio, I called everyone for the performance date, going through each detail like clockwork—double-checking schedules, confirming costumes, props, lighting cues. Every note, every movement had to be perfect; there was no room for last-minute chaos. Once the last confirmation pinged through, I exhaled, letting the quiet settle around the studio like a heavy curtain.
The mirrors reflected only me now, stretching and pivoting, my body following the rhythm of the music as if it were translatingevery buried emotion into motion. Spins, lifts, and falls—all rehearsed, all raw—carried fragments of heartbreak and strength, of anger and grief, stitched together in each movement.
I moved through the choreography alone, letting the echo of my shoes against the polished floor keep time. The space felt sacred, a world contained within four mirrored walls where I could speak the truths I couldn't yet voice out loud.
The music faded, replaced by the faint hum of the air conditioning. I was about to move into the next sequence when the sound of the door opening froze me mid-step. The subtle click of shoes against the hardwood floor carried across the empty studio.
"Aaron." I kept my tone neutral as he stepped inside, hands tucked in his pockets.
"Hey Junie...I... just wanted to apologize again. About Mora," he said, voice careful.
I lifted an eyebrow. "Thanks for the apology." My voice stayed even, reserved.
""I swear, June, I was just venting—letting off steam. I didn't go into any detail, I didn't repeat anything personal, I didn't drag your name through the mud. You have every right to be mad—angry even, furious if you want. Take all the time you need to process it, because I know I messed up. But please believe me, no one has any right to say anything bad about you, and I won't let them.
I'm sorry—more sorry than I can put into words. I wish... I wish you could forgive me, not just in some distant future but now, today, so we could start healing. I wish you could look at me theway you used to, with that trust in your eyes that made me feel like I was worth something. I wish I was still your safe place—the one you came to first, the one you didn't hesitate to run to when the world was too much.
And I am so deeply, painfully sorry that I forgot that for a while—forgot what it meant to be that for you, forgot how much it mattered, forgot how easily something precious can slip away if you stop holding on.""
"It wasn'ta while, Aaron," I said, my voice colder than I intended. "You lived with her."
His face crumpled for a split second before he caught himself. "I know. And I'll regret that until the day I die."
"It doesn't matter anymore," I said, pulling back. "I don't want to talk about this."
"I know," he murmured. "And I'll do anything to gain your trust back."
He reached down beside his chair and placed a small box on the table between us. "I thought... maybe these should be back with you."
I hesitated, then opened it.
Inside was a mess of small, familiar things—pieces of another life. The old silver necklace I used to wear almost every day, one tiny heart charm bent from the time we got caught in the rain and ran laughing down Main Street. A folded note from a trip we'd taken to the coast, where he'd scrawled a ridiculous poem on hotel stationery and slipped it under my door. A tiny sketch—messy pencil lines on torn paper—of a coffee cup and my hands around it. I didn't even remember drawing it.
Beneath them, wrapped carefully in tissue, was the ticket stub from the night we first kissed—creased and faded but still legible, and tucked in the corner was a single seashell from that same trip, the one I'd picked up and said looked like a heart if you turned it just right.
My fingers lingered on each item. I could feel him watching me, not saying a word, as if afraid to break whatever spell the box had cast. When I finally looked up, he wasn't smiling, just sitting there, eyes full of that heavy mix of love and guilt I'd come to recognize too well.
I hadn't even heard him walk up, but suddenly he was there beside me—close enough that I could feel the warmth of him, even without touching.
"I know what I did was awful," Aaron began, his voice barely above a whisper. "But deep down, I never stopped loving you. Not for a single day." His eyes searched mine, desperate, almost pleading. "I lost my way and that will always be my biggest regret."
He reached for my hands, gently folding his fingers around mine as if afraid I might shatter. "Please, June," he said, his breath hitching. "I will never make such a horrible decision again. I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you. Just... one more chance."
I pulled my hands free, the absence of his touch sharp and immediate.
His shoulders sagged, but he kept going, stubborn in his hope. "One last chance, Junie," he said, using the nickname like it might still open a door in me. "That's all I'm asking. One chance to be the man you used to believe I was."
