Simon doesn’t mean to use the watch.

Not at first. But the curiosity eats at him.

Mr. Martin’s watch feels heavy in his hand — wrong. Like it doesn’t belong to him. Like it doesn’t belong to anyone good.

He tells himself he just wants to understand. And then he’s standing inside your scar.

The air is thick. Warped. Frozen in that final moment.

The ballet studio stretches out before him — mirrors, wooden floors, sunlight caught mid-afternoon. Madame Monet stands near the back, posture sharp and critical.

You’re at center floor. Spinning. Focused. Beautiful.

He sees the flicker above before you do.

The chandelier trembles. Everything happens too fast. The crash. The sound. You falling.

The room exploding into chaos. Madame Monet gasps. Students scream. And then— Your father’s voice.

Panicked — but not about you. “Will she still be able to go to regionals?”

Simon’s stomach drops.

You’re on the floor. And that’s what he asks.

The scar doesn’t replay beyond that. It just loops in that awful suspended second — you stunned, breath stolen, the world spinning without you.

Simon backs away. And then he sees it. In the corner of the studio.

A jewelry box. Small. Delicate. Out of place.

He opens it slowly.

Inside— Your ballet earrings. A thin silver necklace. A ribbon carefully folded. And a tiny ballerina figurine. It looks exactly like you.

Same posture. Same determined tilt of the chin.

He realizes it immediately. This isn’t just a memory.

This is the key. The thing you locked yourself around.

He feels sick. Because he wasn’t invited here.

And now he knows something sacred.

When he leaves the scar, the school feels too quiet.

He finds you in the library. You’re sitting at one of the long tables.

Rhonda beside you. Close. Protective.

Your shoulders are relaxed in a way they usually aren’t when you’re alone.

Simon stops a few feet away.

You look up first.

“Hey,” he says, careful.

You tilt your head slightly. Rhonda narrows her eyes immediately.

“What do you want?” she asks flatly.

Simon swallows.

“I— I went somewhere I shouldn’t have.”

You stiffen. Rhonda shifts closer to you instinctively.

Simon looks at you. “I used the watch.”

The air changes. You go very still.

“I saw it,” he says quietly. “The studio. The chandelier. Your dad.”

Your fingers curl slightly against the table. Rhonda’s hand immediately covers yours.

“You had no right,” she says, voice low and dangerous.

Simon nods. “I know.”

He looks back at you.

“There was a jewelry box.”

Your breath hitches. He notices.

“There was a little ballerina inside.”

You look down. Like you’ve been caught with something fragile.

“I didn’t touch anything else,” he says quickly. “I just… I didn’t know that’s what it would be.”

You don’t speak. You rarely do when it comes to yourself. Rhonda does it for you.

“You don’t get to walk into her worst day like it’s a museum,” she says sharply.

Simon nods again.

“I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

You finally lift your gaze. Soft. Guarded.

“It’s not about trying,” you say quietly.

And that might be worse.