26. Get Away
Today is the day. This isn't a huge showcase, but yes it is an important one.
Madame Dubois had informed in the studio the day before, but I didn't go. She didn't mind if I came or not for rehearsals cause during our two week break I went to practice.
For peace.
She had asked Clara to inform it to me.
I have my bag ready- leotard, tutu, extra pair of clothes, hair pins, stockings and everything ready. Xavier kept on insisting that he'd drop me, and watch the show.
I didn't expect him to agree. Not really. I'd thrown the invite out half as a joke. The Xavier I met few weeks ago would've scoffed at the idea of sitting through a two-hour dance program.
But that's not the Xavier who's here now.
"Swan, we need to leave." his voice calls out from the living room, low and unhurried.
Swan.
I grab my ballet bag and sling it over my shoulder, the familiar weight grounding me. Then I head out of the room, heart thudding in a rhythm that has nothing to do with the performance and everything to do with the man waiting outside it.
Xavier.
He's standing near the door, checking his watch like he's been ready for hours. Which he probably has. He's always so... composed. Effortlessly in control. The opposite of what's happening in my chest.
He is wearing a deep, navy button-up rolled at the sleeves, fitting snug across his shoulders and arms—just loose enough to be casual, but clean enough to look intentional.
The top two buttons are undone. His dark jeans are low-slung and sharp, and his hair is slightly tousled, like he ran a hand through it five times before I walked in.
He glances up the second I appear, eyes tracking me—slow and precise. His gaze lingers for a beat too long on the bag slung over my shoulder, then drifts up to my face.
"You ready?" he asks, voice low.
I nod.
He steps forward, wordlessly takes the ballet bag from me with one hand like it's nothing, and opens the front door with the other.
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We sit in his car. The door clicks shut beside me, and I hug my bag to my lap like it's going to shield me from everything swirling in my chest.
My stomach's already doing pirouettes.
"There was no need to drop me, Xavier." I say, glancing at him. I try to sound casual, but even I can hear the edge in my voice. "The performance won't start for another hour. I just have to be there early to get ready."
He doesn't look at me right away.
Just starts the car, smooth and unbothered, eyes focused on the road. Like my words don't even register as an argument.
"I know." he says.
"I mean it," I add, shifting in my seat. "I could've taken a cab or the subway."
Now he glances at me. Just briefly. His eyes flick down to my legs, then back up to my face, jaw tight.
"Well, there might be traffic and this is safer, Amara."
Gosh, why does his voice make everything sound hot?
"You make it sound like I'd explode on contact with public transportation." I mutter.
"You might." he replies smoothly, turning the wheel with one hand.
I press my lips, trying not to smile.
Then he adds, "Or accidentally kiss another stranger in a crowded train."
My head snaps toward him. "Excuse me?"
He shrugs, completely unfazed. "Just saying. You seem to have a habit of kissing people unexpectedly."
Oh my god.
"I- uhm, Just Uno reverse!" I shrug, like its nothing. "You kissed me accidentally and I kissed you accidentally."
accidentally.
"Also," I cross my arms, glaring out the window. "I hope you know this is wildly unprofessional behavior for someone coming to a ballet showcase."
"Good thing I'm not a professional," he murmurs, . "Just your personal driver-bodyguard-audience member."
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I quickly change into my leotard, tights, and my soft, glimmering white tutu. The fabric flutters lightly with every movement, and it finally feels real now. The buzz of backstage nerves, the hum of chatter, the faint smell of hairspray—it's all sinking in.
"Girls! Hurry up! We'll be on stage in fifteen!" Madame Dubois calls out, her French accent slicing through the air.
Chairs scrape, feet shuffle, and suddenly everyone is moving. Like a current pulling dancers toward the wings. Clara flashes me a quick thumbs-up before dashing off with the others.
I stay behind for a second, grabbing the small mirror and pulling my hair into a tight bun.
My hands don't even shake.
But when I kneel to grab my pointe shoes—
My heart stutters.
I unzip the side pocket of my ballet bag.
Nothing.
I check again.
The main compartment. The smaller zipper. Tip it over. Shake it.
No shoes.
No pointe shoes.
No no no no.
This has to be a mistake. I packed them. I always pack them. I checked everything at least three times.
But right now?
They're gone.
And I'm standing backstage, five minutes from warm-up call, in full costume but without the one thing I can't go on stage without.
Panic curls in my chest, sharp and cold.
What do I do?
I keep searching for them, but its all of no use. I swear I checked my bag before going. How did they disappear?
What do I do?
I just wanted to see the look on her face when I handed the shoes back — smug, harmless, stupidly proud of myself. Figured she'd roll her eyes, maybe throw a sarcastic comment, call me a menace.
That was the idea.
That was the plan.
But instead, I found her backstage.
Curled up against the wall, half-concealed by the side curtains. Her costume already on — that white tutu like something out of a dream — but her ribbons were untied. Her back was against the wall, her knees pulled close, and her shoulders were shaking.
Not with frustration.
She wasn't pacing or cursing- She was crying.
Quietly.
The kind of crying that feels like it's been held in too long. Like the tears had nowhere else to go but out.
My whole body went still. My fingers clenched tighter around the pointe shoes I was holding.
They suddenly felt heavy. Not like satin anymore. Not like a joke.
They felt like betrayal.
She hadn't even seen me yet.
"I can't find them" she whispered, her voice cracked and raw. "I can't..."
And that's when my stomach bottomed out.
That panic in her voice?
I caused that.
I did this.
Before the biggest performance of her season. Before the competition she'd worked herself raw for.
She wasn't even mad yet.
Didn't know it was me.
And somehow—that made it worse.
Way worse.
I stepped forward quietly, like I was afraid I'd shatter her even more. "Amara."
She looked up.
And it broke me.
Her lashes were wet, her makeup smudged just slightly. Her eyes — glassy, confused, searching.
Then they dropped to what I was holding.
The shoes.
Her breath caught. I heard it.
"You—" She stood too fast. Snatched them from my hands like they'd burned her. Her jaw clenched. Her shoulders stiff.
Then she shoved me.
"Don't."
Just one word.
No scream. No question. No accusations.
Just don't.
And then she turned away from me, her shoulders squared and holding those shoes against her chest like I'd taken something bigger than fabric and ribbon.
I didn't move.
Didn't say her name again. Didn't try to stop her.
Because I knew—
I deserved it.
Every aching second of that silence.
Every tear I hadn't meant to cause.
Because I thought I was being funny.
And instead, I made her feel like the ground had cracked under her feet.
The same feet that were supposed to be flying on stage in minutes.
God, what the hell did I just do?
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I didn't wait for the applause to die down.
The moment the show ended, I was already moving. The stage lights are still warm, the audience are still clapping, but I didn't care.
I had to see her.
I had to explain.
Security tried to stop me backstage. "Sir, you can't—"
"Yeah, I can." I mutter, pushing past before he could stop me.
My shoes echo down the corridor. I spot her just outside the dressing room, surrounded by scattered makeup kits and forgotten tutus.
"Amara—listen to me, I—"
She turned slowly, and that look on her-
"Xavier," she said, voice clipped, chin lifted. "You knew how important this was to me." The white of her tutu flutters slightly with her breath. Her eyes are glassy, but dry.
I've never hated myself more.
"I didn't mean to hurt you." I swallow. "I was going to give them back. You were never supposed to actually—"
"I did, Xavier!" she whispers. "I thought I lost them. I thought I wouldn't be able to go on. And for five minutes, I was that terrified little girl again who thought the world would fall apart if she missed one step."
"I'm sorry." I don't say her name.
I just stand there, watching her, wishing I could rewind time and undo it. Wishing I could reach in and pull the words out of my mouth the right way instead of choking on all of them like an idiot.
"Get away from me." Her voice cuts through me—low, sharp, still shaking.
She's trying not to fall apart in front of me, and I hate that I'm the reason she's struggling to stay standing in the first place.
I straighten instinctively. "I didn't think you'd- I was going to give them back sooner, I swear. I didn't mean for it to go that far."
"You hid them."
"I didn't-"
"No, you didn't!" she snaps, eyes blazing. "You didn't think, Xavier. You never think when it's me." Her words land harder than any punch I've taken in the ring.
I open my mouth. Then close it.
Because what can I even say?
She's right.
I didn't think. Not past the thrill of teasing her, not past the moment where I could hold those shoes up and watch her huff in frustration, roll her eyes, maybe call me something. Something that still sounded like music when it came from her lips.
But the reason I did it?
It wasn't just for a laugh. It was simple.
Stupid and pathetic.
I just wanted to see her. One more time before she got on stage. Before the lights took her away. Before the crowd pulled her into a place where I didn't exist.