He set them down gently on the vanity, like they were too precious to drop. His eyes lingered on me. "You're going to shine out there. No matter what happens, I want you to know, I'm proud of you."
"Thank you." I replied.
He gave a small nod, reading the boundary in my voice, and stepped back toward the door. "Break a leg, star."
Then he was gone, leaving the sunflowers blazing against the mirror, their reflection staring back at me like a silent reminder of who I was and who I am.
I let out a shaky breath, pressing a hand to my chest. Outside, the stage manager's voice called, "Five minutes!"
It's time.
Chapter Twenty-Eight: Show Time
When the curtains drew back, the world seemed to hush. The stage lights dimmed, leaving only two pools of golden fire—Leo and me, facing each other, still as statues. The first chords of the bandoneón rose, sharp and sultry, slicing the silence.
We moved.
Not with tenderness at first, but with fire—steps fast and deliberate, the Argentine tango unfolding like an argument disguised as seduction. His hand pressed against the small of my back, pulling me close, and I let him, only to twist away a heartbeat later, heels clicking in defiance. The dance was loveturned into a battlefield: the pull and push, the surrender and rebellion. Each sharp pivot whispered betrayal, each sweeping leg a plea for a second chance.
Leo's eyes burned into mine, his body a question. Mine answered with anger, then softened—reluctant forgiveness woven into the tilt of my head, the linger of a step. Our duet became less of a duel, more of a fragile truce, two people carrying scars but still daring to hold one another through the music. When the final note struck, I fell into his arms—not defeated, but resolved. The lights cut to black. The audience gasped.
Then came the students. One by one, groups of small dancers entered the stage—bright costumes, flushed cheeks, trembling hands gripping each other. I watched from the wings, my heart swelling with pride as they moved with more bravery than precision, their joy louder than any misstep. Their little bodies told stories too: of practice, of laughter, of wanting to belong to something bigger than themselves. Their final pose was crooked but radiant, and I clapped before the audience even remembered to.
And then—my turn.
The stage turned blue. A low hum of strings filled the theater, soft and endless, like a galaxy breathing. With a bright yellow dress, I stepped into the violet haze, barefoot, bare-souled. My body bent forward, almost folding into itself—a shape of grief, of missing, of longing. The air felt heavy, as though the universe pressed its weight upon my shoulders.
Each slow rise was a memory. My mother's hands guiding mine when I was a child, her warmth steady as she whispered,"Feelthe music, don't just hear it."The ghost of her laughter rippled through me, light and untamed, the way it used to when I tripped and fell, before she was gone. Her absence was a hollow carved into my chest, a wound stitched into every breath I took.
The music swelled. I moved faster, sharper, spins cracking through the silence like breaking glass, legs cutting through the air as if fighting the very gravity that kept me bound. In those movements, I swore I felt her. Not in body, but in presence. In the way the rhythm carried me beyond my strength. In the way a soft heat lingered at my back, like someone steadying me through every turn.
The lights deepened into indigo and violet, wrapping me in a galaxy of memory and spirit. And there, among the imagined constellations, I saw her—my mother, not as she was at the end, but as she once had been: radiant, alive, moving with me. Her spirit danced within my steps, guiding me toward a place where grief was no longer a cage, but a doorway.
I thought of my father—his eyes always in the crowd, his voice the anchor that never wavered. I thought of my friends, their laughter weaving safety nets beneath me when I crumbled. I thought of the love that hurt but shaped me, teaching me that even pain can be a sculptor. I rose higher and higher, arms trembling yet determined, until they stretched wide—an offering, a surrender, a rise. My body no longer bound by grief, but built from it. No longer broken, but burning. A daughter not left behind, but carried forward.
The last note fell into silence, and I stood there, chest heaving, eyes blurred with unshed tears.
And then it came.
A loud, thunderous round of applause—so sudden it startled me. The sound rose like a wave crashing against the walls, carrying me with it. For a moment, I wasn't just a dancer. I was every version of myself at once: daughter, friend, lover, fighter, survivor.
The applause swelled, and something inside me finally gave way. Tears blurred my vision, hot and unstoppable, running down my cheeks as I tried to stay upright. My legs felt heavy, my chest tight with a rush of emotion I'd held back for too long.
Before I could think, I felt a strong presence behind me. My dad was there, rushing onto the stage, eyes wide, arms open. I didn't hesitate. I sank into him, my sobs muffled against his chest. Around us, I glimpsed the faces of friends, the parents of students, Aaron, Leo—everyone I knew, their eyes glistening, some dabbing at tears, all watching me, witnessing this release.
But in that moment, I didn't see them. I didn't feel them. I found refuge in my dad's arms, the steady heartbeat against mine grounding me. I could feel his own trembling—he understood, without words, how much I missed Mom, how much her absence still ached in both our hearts. He had loved her, lost her, and carried that loss silently all these years. Now, holding me, he let it show.
For the first time in a long while, I let myself be completely unguarded, letting the waves of joy, relief, and grief wash over me, carried by the warmth and safety of the man who had always been there. Every sob, every shiver, every tear was shared, mirrored in him, and somehow that made it lighter, more bearable.
And even as the applause continued to roar, echoing through the theater, I was still rising—lifted by memory, by love, by the quiet understanding that some bonds never break, not even in absence.
Chapter Twenty-Nine: Forgiveness
When I finally slipped back into my dressing room, the walls seemed to close in with all the heat, noise, and exhilaration of the performance still buzzing in my veins. I told everyone Ineeded a moment alone, though not without first collecting a flurry of hugs, pats on the back, and endless congratulations. I let the smiles wash over me, grateful and dizzy, before I finally peeled off the yellow dress, letting it fall in a crumpled heap on the floor.
I sank into the chair in front of the mirror, bare-armed, exhausted, but glowing in a quiet, private pride. My reflection was a little smeared with makeup, a little wild from dancing, but utterly, unapologetically me. I let myself just breathe and savor it.
Then my gaze landed on the enormous bouquet of sunflowers. I couldn't help but smile, remembering how much I loved those bright, laughing blooms, how Aaron had once turned our entire apartment into a homage of sunflowers—calling me his sunshine, even etching a small sun tattoo on his wrist for me. The memory made my chest ache in the sweetest way: the soft touches, the little gestures, the love and attention that had once filled every corner of my life.
