Emma
The day feels unreal in the way everything does after change. Like the world has been turned up a notch and I’m finally registering things I used to glide past on autopilot.
I sit in the passenger seat as Avros drives, the estate gates already far behind us, my ankle braced and elevated, my hands folded loosely in my lap. He drives with the same quiet control he does everything else, one hand on the wheel, eyes forward, posture relaxed but alert.
“So,” he says after a while, voice easy, like this is a normal errand and not the dismantling of my entire former life. “Tell me what you wanted before ballet swallowed everything whole.”
I blink, caught off guard by the simplicity of the question.
“I don’t think I ever let myself want anything else,” I admit. “I started young. It was always next class, next audition, next role. Anything outside of that felt… indulgent and wasteful.”
“Dangerous,” he supplies.
“Yes.” I smile faintly. “Exactly.”
He nods, like that confirms something he already suspected.
“And now?” he asks.
I look out the window as the city slides by. “Now I want a life that doesn’t disappear if my body fails me. I want to wake up without measuring my worth by pain and exhaustion. I want to build something that stays.”
He glances at me then. There’s something in his expression that makes my chest tighten, something warm and steady and frightening in how sure he looks.
“That’s what I want too,” he says. “Stability. Continuity. A home that isn’t conditional.”
We lapse into a comfortable quiet after that, the kind that doesn’t need filling. I’m aware of him in every way; his presence, his calm, the way he listens without trying to steer me. But it doesn’t feel overwhelming. It feels grounding.
When we pull up outside my apartment building, my stomach sinks.
The place looks smaller than I remember. Narrower. Like it’s already begun shrinking away from me now that I’ve stepped outside of it. I stare at the front door, keys not in my hand for once, and realize something with startling clarity.
I don’t want to go in.
That version of my life feels finished. The rooms where I lived in silence, where I told myself everything was fine, where I learned how to swallow resentment and call it dedication. I don’t want to pack up those memories and carry them forward.
“I don’t want to go inside,” I say quietly.
Avros studies my face, searching for doubt. He doesn’t find it.
“Tell me what you need and I’ll get it.”
“I forgot my phone yesterday, and maybe the photo on the hall table?” I offer, my voice quieter than I intended.
He gets out of the car like the world belongs to him and disappears into the building. Within minutes, he is back, handing me my phone and the photo of my parents and me from when I was smaller. It’s the only photo I have from my childhood where I’m not wearing a tutu.
“Is there anywhere else you’d like to go?” he asks.
“The company,” I answer. “I need to end it properly.”
He nods once and pulls back into traffic without comment.
The ballet company building is the same as it always is. I used to find comfort in the familiarity, but now it looks as tired as it made me feel in the last year or so. I walk in alone, my ankle protesting with every step, and it feels like stepping into a past that’s already moved on without me.
The director barely looks up when I tell him I’m quitting.
There’s a polite murmur of regret, a practiced line about unfortunate injuries and wishing me well before he shouts Hannah’s name.
I walk away before she arrives, I don’t want to leave feeling more bitter than I already do, and she deserves success just as much as I did.
On my way out, another dancer asks if I’ve seen John.
I meet her gaze steadily. “No. Not since I left yesterday.”
She nods, already distracted, already thinking about something else.
None of them ever cared about me. Not really.
They cared about what I produced, what I endured, what I could be replaced with when I stopped being profitable. The realization hurts, but it also frees me. I walk out lighter than I walked in.
When I return to the car, Avros is waiting exactly where he said he would be.
“You ready?” he asks.
“Yes,” I say, and mean it.
I call my landlord on the drive back and end the lease. Then I call my parents and tell them about my ankle, about quitting. It feels like peeling off a bandage I’ve kept in place too long. They’re quieter than I expect, then supportive in a way that makes my throat ache.
They offer to visit.
“Not yet,” I say. “I’m… figuring things out. Taking some time to find me feet.”
They understand. Or at least, they respect it. Then they ask me to come back for a visit soon.
When I hang up, I sit back and close my eyes, breathing deeply. The past feels like it’s loosening its grip on me at last.
Avros reaches over and rests his hand on my knee, steady and warm.
I place my hand over his. Relief making its way through my blood stream and cleansing my organs.
That’s how I know without a shadow of a doubt, that I’ve made the right decision.