The fever spikes again, higher than before. Barely making it to the bathroom before throwing up more blood—more than this morning. My body is shutting down faster now, like it knows they're coming and is giving up the fight.
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 is 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.
Even if it's only for one more day.
eight
Vespera
Themorningofmylast day of freedom starts with blood in my mouth.
Not from throwing up this time—from biting through my lip during a rejection seizure. Thirty seconds of my body convulsing, muscles contracting like they're trying to tear themselves from bone. When it passes, I'm on the bathroom floor with Ben's sweater bunched under my head.
I'd fallen asleep at his place after we stayed up until 3 AM running lines. Nothing happened—we just kissed lazily between scenes until I dozed off mid-sentence. He must have carried me to his bathroom when the seizure started, must have sat with me through it, then left the sweater and a glass of water before going to his morning class.
The sweater smells like him. Cinnamon and safety.
I rinse the blood from my mouth and check my phone. I have an hour before morning movement class.
A text from an unknown number:Tonight.
My hands shake as I delete it. They're done waiting.
My body feels different today. Hollow. Like something essential has been scooped out, leaving just the shell. The bonds pulse weaker, almost gentle, like they're saying goodbye. Even the marks have stopped burning.
This is what the medical journals call "terminal acceptance"—when the rejected body stops fighting and prepares to shut down.
I have maybe 48 hours. Probably less.
"Youlooklikedeath,"Marcus says when I stumble into movement class ten minutes late.
"Thanks. I was going for 'ethereal tragedy.'"
He doesn't smile. "Take the day off. You're pushing too hard."
"The show opens in three weeks."
"And you'll be dead in three days if you keep this up." He says it matter-of-factly, but his eyes are worried. "I've seen rejection sickness before, Vespera. I know what the end looks like."
"Then you know I might as well dance while I can."
He studies me for a long moment. "Back row. If you fall, stay down."
I make it through the warm-up, barely. Through the across-the-floor combinations by holding the barre between passes. When we move to partnering work, Ben appears even though he's supposed to be in voice class.
"Marcus called me," he says, taking my weight easily as I stumble. "Said you needed a spotter."
