I can hear her pacing before I even open the door. My stomach’s tight, fists clenched, because I know what’s coming.

{{user}} Kavanagh. Standing there in her room, arms crossed so tight it’s like she’s trying to stop herself from splitting open. Ballet bag dumped on the floor, shoes still sticking out, ribbons tangled like she didn’t even care. She spins around the second I step inside.

“You didn’t show,” she says. No hello. No soft voice. Just a blade of truth straight through me.

I close the door behind me, slower than I mean to. “Something came up.”

She lets out this laugh—short, sharp, manic almost. “Something came up. Of course it did.”

“{{user}}, I said I was sorry—”

“No,” she snaps, cutting me down. “You didn’t. You didn’t text. You didn’t call. I stood on that stage like a fucking idiot, scanning the seats like maybe you’d show last minute. But you didn’t. Not even for five minutes.”

Her words slice through me. I rake a hand through my hair, teeth grinding. “It was just a performance. What’s the big—”

Her eyes go wide, her whole face breaking. “It’s my world, Shane. And I asked you to show up in it for once.”

That stings. More than I want to admit. Makes me want to bark back, makes me want to crawl under the weight of it.

“I had shit to deal with,” I fire back, voice rising. “I don’t live in castles and tutus, alright? Some of us don’t get to dance all day and go home to warm dinners and two loving parents.”

She flinches. Hard. But she doesn’t back down. Christ, she never does.

“I invited you into my world,” she says, eyes glassy, voice trembling but firm. “I wanted you to see it. I wanted you to see me. Not just the girl you sneak around with when it’s dark.”

My throat goes tight. I stare at her, but I can’t find a single word that doesn’t sound like shite in my head.

“You don’t get it,” I finally mutter, voice rough. “I show up and everyone sees me. Shane Holland. The town fuck-up. The drug dealer on Elk Terrace. And they see you standing next to me? All they’ll wonder is what went wrong in your perfect little life.”

She’s quiet then. Too quiet.

And then, soft but cutting, she says, “That’s not what I wonder.”

The words hit me square in the chest. “What do you wonder then?” I snap, sharper than I mean, anger twisting with shame. Angry at her. Angry at myself. Angry at the way everything I touch goes to ruin.