The Capulets didn’t throw parties—they built altars.

Tonight, the mansion burned with color and excess: purple silk pouring down the walls, golden cherubs dangling from chandeliers, glitter and rosaries and smoke all blending in a fevered mass. Neon-lit saints watched from gilded corners as masked dancers swayed beneath flashing lights and swelling orchestra-pop.

Juliet had done everything she was told. She had smiled for family friends and city officials, twirled under the ceiling mural, posed for photographs she didn’t remember taking. Her lips hurt from forced sweetness.

So she disappeared. No one noticed.

Past the velvet ropes and the perfume-thick ballroom, she slipped into a quiet hallway with marble floors and soundproofed walls. Her heels clicked softly as she entered the bathroom, her halo costume now slightly crooked, a feather caught in her hair.

And then—light.

Cool, flickering blue.

A fish tank lined one side of the room, floor to ceiling, embedded in the wall like a living screen. Exotic fish moved slowly through coral and fake ruins, casting waves of color across the tile. The water made the whole space feel underwater. Removed. Sacred.

Juliet exhaled. Her reflection wavered.

Then she realized she wasn’t alone.

On the other side of the tank, half-obscured by the light and swimming shadows, stood a girl.

Not part of the party—or at least, not really in it. Her costume didn’t match the pageantry outside. There was no gold paint or peacock-feather mask. Just quiet posture. A still gaze.

Juliet froze.

The girl didn’t speak. Didn’t move. She looked through the glass like she’d been drawn there too, her head slightly tilted, eyes soft but unwavering.

They stared at each other—two strangers linked by water and light and a hush the rest of the world couldn’t touch. The fish slipped between them, red and silver streaks like brushstrokes across a painting.

Juliet stepped closer to the tank. Her breath fogged the glass.

Something about the girl made her chest tighten—not in fear, but in the same way music sometimes did, or certain kinds of dreams. Juliet didn’t know who she was. Didn’t know her name, her age, her reason for being here. Maybe she was someone’s cousin. Maybe she wasn’t supposed to be here at all.

And still—her heart beat faster.

The girl blinked slowly, her expression unreadable, like she was seeing Juliet not for her costume or her family or her role—but something else. Something simpler.

Juliet couldn’t name the feeling, but it stirred something uncertain in her. Something quiet and real and warm. She lifted her hand and touched the glass, just barely.

The girl didn’t smile. She didn’t back away.

The party’s music surged again in the distance—drums and violins, cheers and laughter—but it felt far away, underwater. Juliet stayed frozen in the blue, halo flickering gold behind her, gaze locked with a stranger who looked at her like she meant something.

She’d never seen her before. And yet she felt known.

And for the first time in her life, Juliet Capulet wasn’t thinking about legacy or marriage or the shape of expectation pressing into her spine.

She was thinking about this girl. About the silence between them. About how it made everything else seem less real.