By February, the air smelled like wet pavement and the promise of spring. Tiffany and I sat on my bed flipping through magazines, planning outfits we didn’t have for places we wouldn’t go. My dad came home later than usual most nights, smelling like coffee and exhaustion, his uniform weighed down by the job. Blake spent more time at the library, sometimes dragging me along, forcing me to “broaden my horizons” with books that had no pictures.

I threw myself into dancing more and more. It had started as a distraction, something to do so I wouldn’t sit around waiting for Blake to magically decide to be my best friend again. But somewhere along the way, it became more than that. I wasn’t just dancing to fill my time anymore—I actually loved it. The music, the movement, the way my body ached after practice but in a way that felt good, like I had earned the pain.

I had something that was mine.

The studio became my second home, the mirrors reflecting a version of myself that felt lighter, freer, every time I pushed my body beyond what I thought it could do.

The aches and soreness became familiar, even comforting.

At least this pain had a purpose.

At least this pain wasn’t Blake.

In April, Dad finally let me go to the mall with Tiffany and the girls without a parent lurking around. It was a big deal.

We spent hours hopping from store to store, trying on platform sandals we could never afford, spritzing ourselves with tester perfumes that smelled like sugar-coated dreams, and playing with butterfly clips in Claire’s as if we were styling some Hollywood star. Tiffany splurged on a glittery Lip Smackers, saying it was an absolute must for her “signature look” while her sister agonized over which choker to buy.

I was holding a pack of pastel scrunchies when Blake scoffed beside me. “You already have hair ties,” he said, watching me with that familiar mix of tired amusement and exasperation. “What do you need all that junk for?”

I shot him a look, shoving the pack into my basket anyway. “Because it’s cute.”

“It’s overpriced.”

Tiffany leaned in, whispering, “Boys will never understand.”

In the in-between moments, I noticed things I hadn’t before.

I’d catch Blake staring at me sometimes—the way his gaze lingered just a second too long, the way his expression darkened whenever another boy so much as glanced my way. There was always that flicker in his eyes, the way his fists curled at his sides, the way he’d withdraw afterward, waiting. Waiting for me to show interest back.

I never did.