“Sorry, I don’t feel well,” he said.
“Wynter, talk to me,” I tried again, placing a hand on his arm.
He flinched at my touch, his skin cold and clammy beneath my fingers. For a brief, vulnerable moment, his face crumpled, an emotion surfacing that I couldn’t quite place—something raw, panicked, even. But just as quickly, he forced himself to straighten, his eyes flickering away from the poster and fixing on some far-off point, as if by sheer will he could escape whatever it was that had seized him.
“Yesoh,” he managed, his voice hoarse. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing visibly, and took another unsteady step back. “I need to go.”
“Wait,” I pleaded, stepping in front of him. “Please, don’t just walk away—”
But he wouldn’t look at me, his face twisting with an urgency that bordered on desperation. He turned abruptly, his pace unsteady as he began to walk quickly down the path, his back rigid, shoulders tense.
“Wynter!” I called after him, a shiver running down my spine as I watched him stumble, catch himself, and pick up speed, as if he could somehow outrun whatever ghosts had been unearthed by that faded poster. But he didn’t stop. He didn’t even look back.
I stood there, my breath visible in the cold, watching him disappear down the path, leaving me and the memory of Waverly Peak hanging like a shadow over the maple leaf-covered silence.
18
Come Home Bae-by
3rd person POV
Present day, days later
Wynter knew he had messed up. You could say lots about him but never that he ever allowed himself to ignore his own faults. That day in the park awakened something inside of him he’d worked so hard to keep dormant, something that if awakened—might just be the one thing that’d bury him under.
Don’t think it, don’t say it.He recalled the promise made, the words they all repeated on tumultuous times to ward the ghostsaway. But seeing that poster, the anniversary of the worst day of his life being tapered all over the park was like a cruel reminder.
As if he could everfeignnormalcy, as if he could ever forget—there was no moving on, never that. At least not entirely.
He’d felt awful for how he’d left Yesoh that day. And it wasn’t even like she’d comforted him about it; they’d continued their skating lessons as per usual, twice a week as she balanced her ballet.
To Wynter, Yesoh Yeo had always been grace personified.
He couldn’t fathom why he felt so strongly about her lately, it wasn’t just in a single aspect, it was overall. It wasn’t that he felt so physically uncomfortable and ill over the fact that he’d left her that day in the park alone, it was that he felt sick aboutdisappointingher. She didn’t deserve that, and he knew it. And what was worse, was that for the first time she didn’t fight back, she didn’t yell at him like she usually did when he was out of line or shove him or reach for him. She was staying still.
And that made him ache from the very depths of his being.
He knew he had every right to leave when he did, anyone would when confronted with what he was confronted with. It wasn’t like there was any magnet pulling him backwards, andyet…
She was his best friend’s little sister, she always was and always would be. He knew it wasn’t his place to feel this strongly towards her within any possible measure. Andyet…
He knew he ought not to keep picturing the look on her face when he flung his hand away from her grasp like he’d shattered something on her highest shelf. He recalled the feeling of being bathed in fault. Her hurt gaze replayed like a film reel in his mind. He knew he shouldn’t be seeing that, andyet…
And yet hedid. And the reality of this hit him like a truck; he wasconcussed. Concussed by herbeing, concussed by thevehemence at which she existed so passionately, so ferociously, without guilt without shame. He wasknockedout.
He wandered out that night towards the ballet faction of the school, a heart on fire in search of her, he sought to be a thief, shamelessly so.
The usually bustling practice room was eerily silent, lit only by the pale moonlight filtering in through the high windows. Wynter stood hidden in the shadows of the doorway, his gaze drawn to the lone figure moving gracefully across the polished floor. Yesoh.
He'd come with the intention of seeing her onlyonce.
Yesoh moved with a fluid grace he'd only ever seen on ice. Her body, clad in a simple black leotard and tights, was a symphony of strength and elegance. He watched, mesmerised, as she stretched and swayed, her limbs flowing seamlessly from one pose to the next. The harsh angles of the practice room seemed to soften around her, her movements transforming the space into something intimate, almost sacred.
He'd always admired Yesoh's dedication to ballet, her unwavering commitment to her art. He understood that singular focus, the way it consumed you, demanded every ounce of your being. He'd felt it on the ice, the complete immersion in movement, the way it transported you to another realm where nothing else mattered. But watching her now, he saw something different in her movements. It was no longer just the disciplined precision of a ballerina, but something more primal, something sensual, that sent a shiver down his spine.
He wasn’t supposed to be looking at her that way. And yet his gaze wandered to places he felt unworthy to behold.
She was practising a piece he vaguely recognised—The Rite of Spring, he recalled. A ballet known for its raw energy and bold, almost provocative choreography. He watched as she moved, her body interpreting the music with a fierce intensity thattook his breath away. There was a wildness in her movements, a rawness that both captivated and unsettled him. Her usual sarcasm, her guarded exterior, seemed to melt away, revealing a vulnerability, a depth of emotion, that he'd never witnessed before.
