He looks like he might close the space between us. He looks like he wants to.
My brain supplies a dozen sane exits. My body refuses every one.
He looks as if he might kiss me.
So I do something- exactly the kind of crazy I'm proud of but later I reg...
Oops! This image does not follow our content guidelines. To continue publishing, please remove it or upload a different image.
I'm supposed to be at his match right now.
Front row, hands clasped tight. Heart racing every time the bell rings. I'm supposed to watch him win, watch the crowd erupt, watch him scan the arena until his eyes land on me and then watch him run to me like the rest of the world doesn't exist.
That was the plan.
Instead, I'm sitting on the edge of my bed. Yeah, my bed.
I'm not at our penthouse.
My house feels empty and not safe especially after that stalker incident.
The room is quiet in that awful, suffocating way. My ballet bag is still by the door, shoes half-unzipped, like even they're confused about why I'm here. My ankle throbs dully, not unbearable, just enough to remind me of the choice I made.
I twisted it during rehearsal cause of a wrong landing and a sharp flare of pain that made Madame Dubois narrow her eyes and insist I get it checked.
I was supposed to be at the hospital right now.
I couldn't be the reason he didn't step into that ring. Couldn't be the thing that pulled him away from the one place he's fought his whole life to stand in. So I smiled, nodded, said I was fine. Told everyone I'd go get it checked later.
I told myself he'd never know.
That he'd win. That he'd be happy. That I'd be watching from a screen somewhere, heart in my throat, cheering quietly.
That he'd still have his title.
I reach for my phone finally, and switch it on.
The screen lights up.
My breath leaves me all at once.
7 missed calls. All from Xavier.
And a text.
My chest tightens painfully as I open it.
Call me when you see this.
Why was he calling me so much?
My thumb hovers over his name as guilt crashes over me in waves. I was supposed to be there. I was supposed to answer. I was supposed to see him before the match, kiss his knuckles, tell him to come back to me in one piece.
I swallow hard.
What if he needed me and I wasn't there?
What if something happened?
My phone buzzes.
I assume, no, I hope it's Xavier.
But the name at the top of the screen makes my stomach drop.
Unknown Number.
For a second, I just stare at it. The digits look familiar in the worst way, like a half-remembered nightmare. I know this number. I know I do. But it isn't saved in my phone.
