‘MODERN AU.’

Rhonda always carries the same black bag.

It’s structured. Matte leather. Slightly gothic — silver hardware, subtle chain details. Big enough to look practical. Too heavy to be casual.

People have asked.

“What do you even keep in there?”

She shrugs. “Stuff.” She never elaborates.

Because inside? Wrapped carefully in soft fabric— Your pink ballet shoes.

Every single day.

She pretends she doesn’t care about appearances, but she checks the ribbons before she zips it closed. Makes sure they’re folded neatly. Makes sure nothing bends the box.

Sometimes between classes she slips into a quiet stairwell, unzips it just slightly, just to check they’re still there.

Like she’s guarding treasure. You don’t bring them yourself because you can’t risk someone seeing.

So she does. After school, you both slip out separately. Meet two blocks away near the old art building.

She hands you the bag without a word.

You take it carefully, fingers brushing hers.

“You didn’t have to,” you say softly.

She rolls her eyes. “Yeah. I did.”

There’s something intensely intimate about it. She doesn’t get applause. She doesn’t get recognition.

But she carries your dream on her shoulder every day.

One afternoon, a classmate grabs the strap of her bag jokingly.

“What’s in here? Bricks?”

Rhonda’s expression turns ice-cold.

“Don’t.”

It’s one word. Flat. Final. The classmate drops it immediately.

Later, when you’re tying your ribbons in your private studio, you glance at her.

“You don’t have to protect them like that.”

She leans against the wall, arms crossed, watching you adjust your shoes.

“I’m not protecting the shoes,” she says.

She doesn’t elaborate.

She doesn’t need to.