24. What Might Have Been
What Might Have Been
Eleanor
A sharp, burning pain tears up my calf, shooting through my heel and ankle like they’ve been plunged into molten lava. The urge to scream again claws at my throat, but I bite it back. My mother is here. Sitting. Watching. Furious, no doubt, that I have once again failed to meet her expectations.
A crowd gathers around me, their faces blurring through the tears. If the pain weren’t so consuming, I might wish I could die of embarrassment instead. Yesterday I passed out in front of everyone. And now this.
The snap keeps replaying in my head. I know what it means. I know the damage is done, and that there’s no going back.
A warm hand presses to my shoulder. “Eleanor, can you hear me? Are you alright?”
Through the haze, I make out Gabriel’s face, worry carved in his features. I try to answer, but my mouth refuses to work. Every flicker of movement sends the pain screaming higher up my leg.
Lily and Dillon kneel beside him.
Lily’s hand covers her mouth as tears spill freely. “Oh no,” she sniffles, voice breaking.
“Someone call medical!” Dillon shouts to the crowd.
The swell of voices around me rise and fall in waves, each one ratcheting my anxiety higher, making the world tilt and spin.
“Move.” A single voice cuts through the chaos, steady and commanding.
Feet shuffle back. I keep my eyes squeezed shut, too afraid to look at what has become of my ankle.
Then strong arms slide beneath me and lift me from the floor. The world sways, but I know that scent instantly: sandalwood and mint.
Nik.
For a split second, relief crashes through the pain. But then dread follows fast behind. Because if Nik is carrying me, if his arms are the only thing holding me together, my mother is watching this, too. Watching me humiliated. Weak. Carried like a child instead of standing on my own two feet.
And I know, without even looking at her, she will never forgive me for it.
I cling to Nik’s shirt, pressing my face into the curve of his neck. I don’t know what hurts worse, the searing fire in my ankle, or the guilt scorching me from the inside out.
Nik’s arms stay strong, his hold both steady and impossibly gentle, even as he all but kicks the dressing room door open.
“Everyone out.” His voice booms, low and commanding, the kind of tone that allows no room for argument.
The chatter behind us falls silent. Shoes scuff, bags rustle, and the room empties in a rush of motion until it’s only us.
He lowers me onto the bench with the same care someone might give to glass about to crack. His hands never leave me until he’s certain I won’t slip.
I open my mouth, desperate to spill the words tearing at my chest. That I’m sorry. Sorry for ruining everything, for breaking apart his production, for failing him when it matters most, for lying, for not being strong enough.
But all that comes out are jagged and uncontrollable sobs, catching on the edge of my throat until I can’t breathe around them.
Nik goes to a vacant locker and pulls out a first-aid kit, then sets it on the vanity behind me. He drags a stool right up to me and sits.
Careful and sure, he lifts my injured leg and rests my foot in his lap. Every small motion sends a flare of white fire up my calf. I bite down hard to keep from crying out.
He begins unlacing my pointe shoe with painstaking gentleness, his eyes fixed on the task as if looking away will make it worse. When the shoe comes off, the back of my foot is a balloon of swelling and the first purples of bruising rise along my calf.
I suck in a sharp, ragged breath.
Nik finally lifts his eyes to mine, his face unreadable. “Can you point your toes?” he asks.
I make an attempt, but a searing, white-hot bolt rips through my leg, forcing my eyes shut. “I can’t,” I croak.
He rests his palm over the swollen area, fingers warm and steady. His features knotted briefly—anger, concern, I can’t tell which—and it hurts me more than the injury does.
He pulls a sterile bandage from the kit and begins to wrap my ankle. The room closes in around us: the rustle of gauze, his breath, the soft hitch of my own sobs. The silence is heavy and full of things neither of us voice.
If I could undo every choice that led here, I would. Watching him here, trying to mend what I’ve broken, feels like watching my heart splinter in slow motion.
Once he finishes wrapping my ankle, he grabs a foam roller and places it beside me on the bench, helping me turn so I can prop my leg. Not once does he look at me.
He stands then, turning away from me, hands clasped behind his head, elbows jutting out.
I don’t know if I should speak. Nothing I say can fix this.
But staying silent with him feels suffocating.
Maybe I need his anger. Maybe if he lashes out, I can finally release some of this guilt.
I want him to hate me as much as I hate myself.
“Nik,” I croak, my voice rough and tight.
He shakes his head slowly. “Don’t talk right now.”
Yes. Anger. That’s what I need; his fury to match the storm inside me. “Nik… I’m sorry,” I whisper, each word jagged and uneven.
His hands run down his face, and then he turns to me, eyes blazing. “You’re sorry?” His voice is taut, sharp with frustration.
My breath hitches. “Yes.” I try to swallow, but my throat is dry and raw. “I know I ruined everything for you.” Fresh tears stream down my cheeks. “I’m so sorry I ruined this production for you.”
His nostrils flare, and his gaze sharpens into a glare. “Is that what you think I’m upset about?” He inches closer, his voice a low, venomous whisper. “You think I’m angry because of a performance?”
I nod, uncertain. “Yes?”
A bitter laugh escapes him. “Don’t be so dense, Eleanor. You know damn well that’s not why I’m upset.”
I open my mouth to speak, but no words come. My mind races, certain he’s furious that I failed, that I’m not the dancer he needs. I let him down. I should be fired. Sent away. I can’t bear the thought of being the one to hurt him.
Nik bends slightly, pointing toward the stage. “I just watched you snap your achilles and fall… and you think I’m angry because you can’t dance?” His eyes lock onto mine, piercing and unwavering.
I sit frozen, my breaths coming in uneven gasps. I have no words, so I let him speak.
“I’m angry, Eleanor, because you’ve been lying to me.
I’m angry because you didn’t put yourself first, didn’t pull out when I gave you the chance.
” He pinches the bridge of his nose, voice taut.
“And I’m the angriest of all because I just watched the love of my life collapse on the floor—and she’s more worried about ruining a production than taking care of herself. ”
My heart thuds violently in my chest.
He shakes his head, his voice breaking. “I love you, Eleanor.”
My breaths come faster, my pulse hammering in my ears. He… loves me?
“It’s killing me, Eleanor. I love you so much that I can’t sit by and watch you do this to yourself anymore.” Tears glisten in his eyes, unrestrained.
Without another word, he turns toward the door, pausing with his hand on the frame. He doesn’t look back. “Everyone needs a savior… but I can’t be yours.”
And then he’s gone, leaving the room silent except for the echo of my own heart.
He told me he loves me. He told me… he loves me.
The dressing room is quiet, but my mind is deafening with guilt and regret. One of the few people who truly cares for me… who has been gentle, patient, and someone I need… has just confessed his love.
Fresh tears streak my cheeks. He doesn’t know my feelings for him. The way I wish I could be his, but I’ll likely never get the chance now.
A commotion erupts outside the dressing room.
“Where is my daughter?” My mother’s voice fractures the silence.
“The dressing room. You need to go back to the seating area—” I hear Nik say.
My mother cuts him off. “Don’t tell me what I can or can’t do. Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
I freeze, rigid as a statue. The last thing I need is my mother barging in to tear me down even further.
“You’re not going in there,” Nik replies, firmly.
“That is my daughter! I can see her if I please,” she scoffs.
Footsteps rustle as if she tries to push forward.
Nik’s voice grows sharp, edged with anger. “Listen to me. You are not going in there to yell at or berate a dancer who’s already injured. It’s not happening. Leave now, or I have no problem escorting you out myself.”
I press my face into my hands, trying to disappear, my body shaking from the tension, my chest tight with both fear and helplessness.
The click of my mother’s heels fade down the corridor. “This won’t be the last you hear from me,” she calls out, full of fury.
“I’ll be looking forward to it,” Nik answers, confident and composed.
Her footsteps recede. Through the thin dressing-room wall, I hear Nik sigh and the dull thud of his shoes as he walks away.
Everything in me wants to fling the door open, run after him, tell him the truth, and beg him to forgive me.
But I have no choice but to stay. I have only his last words and the hollow ache of what might have been.
I sit with that ache until it shifts into something else. If I want him to see me as more than this damaged version of myself, I have to change. Not for anyone else’s approval, but because the idea of losing him pushes me past excuses and into action.
Getting help has always seemed impossible. Admitting I need it feels like defeat. But after tonight, it no longer feels like surrender. It feels like the only honest thing I can do for myself, and maybe—if I’m brave—for the man who’s shown me a life with color in it. I will try. For Nik… for me.
The dressing room door bursts open followed by paramedics in dark blue uniforms maneuvering a stretcher. Russell and Kasper trail behind them, their faces set and grave.
A woman with brunette hair swept into a neat low bun approaches me first, lowering herself onto the stool Nik left behind.