Three days.
The Dead Forest.
Violet Martinez.
The giggle escapes—not the unhinged one, but something brighter. Realer. The sound of someone who's been handed a lifeline and can't quite believe it's not a trap.
I skip.
Actually skip, like a child, my tulle skirt bouncing with each movement as I twirl once, twice, three times?—
Four times. Even number. Safe.
—before forcing myself to calm down.
Don't get your hopes up, the pessimistic part of my brain warns.Things always go wrong. People always disappoint. The universe has a grudge against you specifically.
But for once, I don't listen.
For once, I let myself feel the hope without immediately crushing it.
I decide to head home. The costume is going to get wet—the clouds are definitely about to open up—but I have plenty to change into. And maybe I'll spend the next three days practicing, preparing, making sure my body is ready for the most important performance of my life.
Three days.
I can survive three days.
I'm about to leave—already calculating the fastest route back to my townhome—when voices drift toward me from the other side of the building.
Familiar voices.
The mean girls from earlier.
"—can't believe she showed up in that outfit?—"
"—probably doesn't even know we have rehearsal?—"
"—so pathetic?—"
I freeze.
Rehearsal.
The word catches in my brain, snagging on something I must have missed. Something I didn't hear because I was too busy trying to survive their mockery.
One of them rounds the corner, sees me, and stops. The others pile up behind her like a traffic jam of cruelty.
"Oh, you're still here?" She sounds genuinely surprised. "We thought you'd have run off crying by now."
I don't respond.
My brain is stuck on the wordrehearsal.
"Where are you going?" another one asks, her tone dripping with false sweetness. "Don't you know we have special rehearsal today? At the outdoor dance room?"
My eyes dart to their attire. Dance clothes. Performance ready.
They're not lying.
