I slow slightly, watching the shift in her posture, but Lilia—completely oblivious—smiles and walks right up to her.
“Ready for the showcase?” she asks, all enthusiasm.
Lilia had explained to me a night ago that there would be one. Swan Lake, if I’m remembering correctly. Apparently, it’s tradition for the school to host one every year before winter term.
Paris’s face barely moves. The corners of her lips twitch, forming something that could be a smile, but it’s awkward. She doesn’t even say anything.
Lilia either doesn’t notice or chooses not to. “You’re gonna kill it!” she says instead, her voice light, unbothered.
Paris nods once, briefly, then looks away again, arms still crossed.
I frown slightly, glancing between them, and Lilia turns back to me, catching my confusion.
“She’s in the ballet showcase every year,” she explains, briefly looking back at her. “She’s brilliant,” she continues. “Super talented.”
I follow her gaze as well. She’s still looking down, arms crossed over her chest, shoulders slightly hunched like she’s trying to make herself smaller.
I had wanted to befriend her. Still do.
The feeling of being in someone else’s shadow, of constantly being compared to a sibling who seems to pull all the light into themselves. The feeling of always being the second choice, like being written in pencil in someone else’s life—easily erased and replaced.
It’s a whole different type of sadness, knowing you’re never the first name on anyone’s list, just a placeholder until something better comes along.
I wonder if she feels like she has to be great, because if she isn’t, what’s left?
And the ballet showcase…
Mason used to go to those. Every year.
At the time, I hadn’t thought much of it. Mason had random phases of intense interest—he was the kind of person who would hyperfixate on something completely random and then drop it just as fast. But ballet? That had confused me.
He never talked about it, never brought it up outside of the showcases.
But I remember him watching the programs closely, researching the deeper meaning behind them. I’d even seen him draw a ballerina once. It was strange… and sudden and seemed unnecessary. Out of character. But then again, I’ve been debating ever since his death if I ever truly knew him.
I never asked him about it.
Maybe I should have.
I don’t get to dwell on it, though, because suddenly, Lilia’s hand clamps onto my arm, and she spins me around.
“There she is, look.”
It takes me a second to steady myself—becauseow, Lilia—but sure enough, there’s Zia.
She stands a few feet away, attention fixed on her phone, completely indifferent to basically everything around her. Lilia leans in, whispering conspiratorially into my ear. “So, how do we do this?”
I blink. “We just… do it?”
She pulls back, eyeing me. “Just do it?”
I nod.
We both exhale at the same time (a synchronized breath of impending doom) before trudging forward.
The moment we stop in front of Zia, an uncomfortable silence settles between us.
No one says anything.
