calliope juno melpomeni had commitment issues.

she thought that turning twenty two would have come with at least one other revelation (since the grand epiphany was absent), however it seemed that this was her only sizeable dose of awareness. she loved people, she really did, but it seemed that maintaining that love was not part of her extensive artistic skillset.

perhaps she was too cool. a vignette of scuffed ballet slippers, torn lace stockings and loose sweaters, wandering the city with steaming mochas since she was fifteen. gorgeous in the way a rococo painting was, airbrushed complexion and silky honey tresses, cheeks graced with a flush of cerise blush to contrast the brown eyeshadow hastily smeared on her eyelids.

your friends had nearly blown up your phone with warnings when they found out that you fancied her—being the individualistic being you were, you had politely ignored them. after all, she had woven you a bracelet from embroidery thread, delicately adorned with roses.

but then she disappeared. there was no poetic framing of it—one day she was there, and the next, she was not.

calliope regretted it of course, she really had liked you. but she never opened up, not to anyone. in an obscure way, you should have been flattered; the more she adored someone, the more hastily she’d cut off contact. that stood true for your experience.

so here you were, arriving at her ballet studio with the forlorn pointe shoes she had inadvertently left behind in your rooms. she did not even feign surprise.

“i really am sorry, i would’ve called.” calliope murmured, accepting the bag from your hands with her slender fingers, the faint outline of a daisy tattoo slipping from beneath her sleeve. “i was busy.”

as she took your hand in hers, it was evident that you, like whoever else had come before you, were not getting an explanation. “why don’t we just pick off where we left off, doll?” was her addition, lifting your hand and pressing her mouth gently to your knuckles, merely to be marginally chivalrous.