"Anytime." His hands make a dismissive gesture. "People need to learn boundaries."
But the question lingers. I know my mother's name—Iris Levine, though she probably went back to her maiden name after she left. But knowing her name doesn't tell me anything that matters. Why she left. Where she went. Whether Dad's careful silence about her means something more than just pain.
The marks throb a warning, but I push the thought away. One mystery at a time.
Thefirstweekbecomesthe second. Days blur into eighteen-hour rehearsals, movement classes where I hide mystumbles behind artistic choices, late nights running lines with Ben. He's been careful with me—a hand on my back during scene study, sharing his lunch when I "forget" mine, making sure I have a ride back to the dorms after midnight rehearsals.
His hands never stop moving when he talks, painting pictures in the air, making even mundane conversations feel performative. It's endearing. Safe. After months of Alpha intensity, his Beta warmth feels like being able to breathe.
But my body is keeping score. The rejection sickness gets worse, not better. More blood in the mornings. More fever at night. More moments where the room spins and I have to grab onto walls to stay upright.
I'm running out of time.
My phone buzzes again. This time it's Ben:Sweet dreams. Can't wait to be destroyed by you on stage tomorrow.
Despite everything, I smile. Because for this week, I got to feel normal. Got to flirt with a nice boy who talks with his hands. Got to be just Vespera, not an omega rejecting her mates.
Whatever happens next, I had this.
The fever spikes again, higher than before. Barely making it to the bathroom before throwing up more blood happens—more than this morning. My body is shutting down faster now, like it knows they're coming and is giving up the fight.
Two more days until the end of week two. The show opens in four weeks. I just need to last until then. Just need to perform Medea once, show everyone what happens when you push someone too far, when you take away their choices, when you corner something wild.
But curling up in bed, shaking from fever and exhaustion, the truth becomes clear.
Four weeks won't happen.
Maybe not even four days.
Outside my window, Columbus glitters with theater lights and possibility. But all I can see are shadows that might be them, coming to take back what they think is theirs.
"You can't run forever," I whisper to the darkness.
But I'll run until I can't anymore.
seven
Vespera
Weektwostartswithme throwing up blood.
Just a little. Just enough to know that something inside is breaking down faster than I thought. Mouth rinsed, teeth brushed, extra concealer applied to the dark circles that have become permanent fixtures under my eyes.
"Morning, evening star!" Ben calls through my door. "Coffee's on me if you're ready in five!"
"Be right there!"
This has become our routine. He brings coffee, I pretend to drink it, we walk to morning movement class together. He tells jokes, I laugh, we both ignore that I have to stop twice to catch my breath on a five-minute walk.
"You're getting better." His hands gesture optimistically. "You're not as pale."
That's because I've started using bronzer to fake healthy color. But I let him think what he wants. Let myself think it too,sometimes, in the moments between when my body reminds me I'm dying.
Movement class is torture. Every stretch pulls at muscles that ache from rejection, every jump makes my vision blur. But I've gotten good at positioning myself behind taller people, at making my stumbles look like artistic choices.
"Beautiful work, Vespera," the instructor calls as I barely complete a turn sequence. "Such raw emotion in your movement."
If only she knew the emotion was just trying not to collapse.
