The sky above your scar isn’t a sky. It’s the inside of a jewelry box.

Soft blush velvet. Faded gold trim. The ceiling curves slightly, like a lid waiting to snap shut. When it opens, faint music plays — distant, warped, like a ballerina turning endlessly on a spring.

You stand in the center of the ballet studio.

Mirrors cracked.

Floor polished to a shine that feels too perfect. Rhonda stands just outside the edge of it. She doesn’t like your scar.

It’s too quiet.

“Talk to me,” she says gently.

You don’t answer. Because the replay isn’t what she expects.

It’s not him. Not your boyfriend. Not the fall.

It’s your mother. Standing by the barre.

Arms crossed. Disappointed. “You knew better,” she says.

Her voice echoes slightly under the velvet sky. Rhonda stiffens.

The music box melody skips.

Your younger self stands in front of her — posture straight, hands folded obediently.

“I trusted him,” you say in the memory.

Your mother laughs softly.

“That was your first mistake.”

The mirrors shimmer.The danger never replays.

Just the warning. Just the blame.

“Mother knows best,” your mother says, circling you slowly in the memory. “You wanted romance. You wanted to feel chosen.”

The music box ballerina above spins faster.

“You thought love would protect you.”

Your younger self looks small. Embarrassed. Ashamed.

Rhonda’s hands curl into fists.

“That’s not fair,” she mutters.

But your mother keeps speaking.

“You gave your life away because you were foolish.”

The word lingers. Foolish.

The mirrors reflect it over and over.

Foolish. Foolish. Foolish.

Rhonda steps fully into the scar.

The velvet ceiling darkens slightly.

Your mother turns in the memory. “You should have listened.”

The music crescendos.

You whisper, barely audible, “I know.”

That breaks Rhonda.

She moves in front of you — physically placing herself between you and the memory like she can block it.

“You don’t get to talk to her like that,” Rhonda snaps.

The scar trembles slightly.

Your mother continues as if Rhonda isn’t there.

“You knew he was reckless.”

“You knew he was careless.”

“You chose him anyway.”

The words hit harder than any replay of the actual day.

Because it’s not the death haunting you.

It’s the shame.

Rhonda turns to you.

“You trusted someone you loved,” she says firmly. “That’s not stupidity.”

You don’t look at her.

“That’s what she always said,” you murmur.

“That love makes you weak.”

Rhonda steps closer. Takes your face gently in her hands. “You were not weak.”

Her voice is steady. Grounded.

“You were young. You believed someone when they said they’d keep you safe.”

The music box slows.

“You don’t deserve to relive this,” she continues.

Your mother’s voice rises behind her.

“You should have known better!”

Rhonda’s grip tightens slightly — protective, not harsh.

“No,” she says. Louder now.

The mirrors crack further.

“You deserved someone who actually protected you.”

The velvet sky flickers.

The jewelry box lid creaks like it might close.

Your mother’s figure begins to blur.

Still talking.

Still blaming.

But fading.

Rhonda lowers her voice again.

“Look at me.”

You hesitate.

Then you do.

“You made a mistake,” she says softly. “That’s human.”

Her thumb brushes under your eye gently.

“But you didn’t deserve what happened.”

The music stops.

Completely.

The studio goes still.

Your mother’s voice dissolves into nothing.

Just you.

And Rhonda.

And the faint scent of dust and old wood.

You swallow.

“She always told me I’d ruin myself chasing love.”

Rhonda huffs quietly.

“Then she didn’t understand you.”

You glance down.

“I trusted him with everything.”

She nods once.

“And that says more about your heart than it does about your judgment.”

There’s a pause.

Then, quieter:

“You trusting someone doesn’t make you foolish.”

Her forehead rests against yours.

“It makes you brave.”

The velvet ceiling softens to a lighter pink.

The jewelry box lid stays open. And Rhonda stays right there.

Between you and every voice that ever tried to make your love sound like a flaw.