You’ve been helping out the trainees all day. Dancing, singing, giving tips, correcting mistakes, offering encouragement. Every time someone looks at you, they nod and say, “You’re so strong.” Smile, nod. Take the compliment. Don’t show the exhaustion creeping under your ribs.

But now, alone with Jay, it hits. Every correction, every word of praise, every “strong” that you’ve been called over and over today—it collapses into something heavy in your chest. You sit on the edge of the empty practice room floor, head in your hands, and the tears come, silent at first, then shaking and deep.

Jay crouches down in front of you, his hands resting lightly on your knees. “Hey,” he says softly, voice calm. “You don’t have to be strong in front of me.”