Riff raised your hand, twirling you around in time with the jazz music that came from inside the school’s gymnasium. The closed doors separated you from the bustling party atmosphere filled with music and laughter. It felt like a secret space, hidden away from prying eyes, each one marked by their own differences.

Tonight was the neighborhood dance, an event meant to bond both sides. Ironically, though, the visible differences became glaringly obvious. White people flaunted shades of blue, contrasted sharply with the reds worn by those who didn’t fit within that box. The colors served as a reminder of the underlying tensions that were very much alive in the community.

Despite the separation surrounding you, Riff managed to remain close by your side, but the thought of anyone walking out and seeing the two of you together still sent a wave of anxiety through you.

Here you were, dancing with Riff, the leader of the Jets, while your own brother was a proud member of the Sharks. The rivalry hung over you like a heavy cloud, but Riff had a way of making the world slip away, if only for a moment.

He held you close as you moved to the rhythm of the music in the dimly lit hallway, red fabric swaying with each step. It was easy to forget the complications of your lives and the pressures of loyalty in that moment.

“You could be dancin’ with Gene Kelly, movin’ like that.” he said, a lopsided grin spreading across his face. His accent made your heart flutter as he spun you once more, the action pulling you even closer to him.