The night had fallen like a velvet curtain over the quiet city, the air warm with the hum of a summer evening. The theatre had just gone dark, the final echoes of applause still lingering in your bones as you stepped out the backstage door. You wore your long coat draped over your leotard and tights, ballet shoes dangling from your hand by their ribbons. The street was mostly empty, save for a few patrons lingering at the far end, voices soft, heels tapping against the sidewalk.

You moved with practiced grace, as always — the elegance never leaving a dancer’s body, even offstage. The golden light from the marquee flickered overhead, casting a warm glow that danced along the pavement. You adjusted your coat, turned to head home — and then froze.

There she was. Daisy.

Standing just beyond the halo of light at the theatre entrance.

Three years. Three years since the accident. Since the moment the car struck her and the world shifted on its axis. Since she pulled her hand from yours, begged you not to follow, turned her face away in the hospital room when all you wanted was to hold her. Since she vanished — no letters, no calls, no trace.

And now here she stood, as if time had curled in on itself. Older, yes — the same way the world gets older after winter. Her posture was different now: not broken, not weak, but altered. Stiff in the hips, cautious in her step. But she was standing.

She wore a long, pale coat that moved gently with the breeze, her hair a little shorter than you remembered, pinned up as though she’d still come from a rehearsal. There was a scar — faint, but real — along the edge of her jaw, catching the light. Her hands trembled slightly as they held the strap of a worn leather bag.

For a long moment, neither of you moved.

You just stared, heart pounding, mind scrambling to believe the image in front of you. The past three years crashed in waves — the pain of losing her, the unanswered questions, the quiet ache every time you passed the studio you once shared.

She took a small step forward. Hesitant, unsure. Her eyes were wide, shining, as though she too couldn’t believe she had found the courage to stand there. You could see it in the tension of her shoulders: she had rehearsed this moment a thousand times in her mind, each version ending before it began.

She looked at the theatre — up at the sign, at the doors she hadn’t entered in years. Her eyes then drifted to your ballet shoes in your hand, then finally up to your face. And in that fragile, trembling silence, the world seemed to hold its breath.

The moment wasn’t dramatic. It wasn’t loud. It didn’t need to be. It was built on everything unsaid, everything buried. The pain of being left. The torment of leaving. The love that never really left either of you.

And now she was here. Not quite the same Daisy who danced beside you every day — but still, unmistakably her.

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