My eyes land on the speakers in the corner. Music. That’s what I need.
I scroll through my phone and select my emergency mood-lifter: BTS’sButter. The moment those first beats pulse through the room, something inside me begins to loosen.
Neither Paige, Theo, nor the memory of that awful night can dim the joy of dancing. I won’t let them. Here, in the privacy of my home, I’m able to kick loose.
I push the coffee table to the side, tie my hair into a ponytail, and start moving. The rhythm travels from my ears down to my toes, and my body responds before my brain can overthink it. My hips sway, my shoulders roll, and my feet remember steps I’ve practiced a hundred times at the yoga studio.
Each move feels like shedding weight—like peeling off layers of embarrassment and hurt. My heart pounds, but now it’s from exertion instead of anxiety. Sweat beads at my temples asI hit each beat, each transition. The choreography demands all my focus, leaving no room for the party replays that have been torturing me.
The tension in my muscles releases and my mind clears. Effortlessly, I fall into each move, gliding from side to side, every pop and twist lifting me above the dark clouds of humiliation.
It’s not the first time I’ve had to get over low spirits, and I swear, it gets easier each time. What doesn’t kill you truly makes you stronger.
The song ends just as I perform the last move. Panting, I brace my hands on my knees, sweat trickling down my temples. I love the exhilaration after a workout. My lungs burn in the best way, and the endorphins flooding my system make everything seem more manageable. The disaster at the party hasn’t disappeared from my mind, but it’s shrunk down to an easily manageable size. After all, it was just one bad night, not a bad life.
I flop onto the couch, my muscles pleasantly spent. What else does a post-dance recovery need? Ice cream. Obviously.
I pad to the kitchen and dig through the freezer, pushing past frozen vegetables until my fingers graze what I’m seeking. Rocky road—the universal solution to life’s problems. A good-sized scoop goes into my favorite blue bowl. Make that two scoops. After last night, I’ve earned it.
Back on the couch, I curl my legs underneath me and flip on the TV. The screen flickers to life with mom’s favorite show already playing: Blitz Kitchen. Usually I’d change it, but theenergy of chefs racing against the clock draws me in before I can reach for the remote.
“Thirty minutes remaining!” the host announces, and the contestants scramble like their lives depend on perfecting a soufflé.
Who knew cooking could be so intense? A woman with a purple streak in her hair nearly slices her finger off chopping onions at lightning speed. Another contestant looks ready to cry when his sauce separates.
I take another spoonful of ice cream, the chocolate melting on my tongue. This show isn’t half bad. Maybe mom’s onto something.
By the time the judges start tasting, I’ve scraped my bowl clean and find myself actually invested in who wins. The woman with purple hair takes it with her deconstructed shepherd’s pie. Good for her.
But now I need something more interactive. My Switch calls to me from my bedroom.
I settle on my bed, propping pillows behind me, and boot up The Legend of Zelda Tears of the Kingdom. A quick loading screen later, Link appears, ready for adventure. Or in my case, ready for some therapeutic monster slaying.
A red Bokoblin appears on the ridge ahead, dancing around with its crude weapon, making those ridiculous noises they do.
“Hello, Paige,” I say, my lips curving into a mischievous grin.
I craft a bomb arrow, take careful aim, and watch as digital Paige goes flying off the cliff with a satisfying squeal.
“That’s for ruining my makeup,” I tell the now-empty space where the Bokoblin stood. “And this”—I find another one lurking near a tree—“is for spilling chocolate milk on me.”
The second Bokoblin meets an even more spectacular end.
Does imagining Paige as video game monsters make me appear crazy? Probably. Is it helping? Absolutely.
After therapy, I check the clock. With a little time to spare before anyone comes back, I go to the kitchen for a snack and some water.
I’m splitting an avocado in half when the front door clicks open, and there he is—Theo. Of all the people I hoped to avoid today, he’s number two on the list. Did he leave school early?
He freezes by the door when he sees me, like he didn’t expect this encounter, either.
Glaring at him, I forcefully lodge the kitchen knife into the seed, then twist and remove it, holding it up so he can see the seed stuck in its blade. The avocado flesh mushes beneath my fingers as I imagine it to be every annoying thing Theo has ever done.
“Hey. How was school?” I wield the knife-impaled seed in the air with a twisted grin.
Theo’s eyes widen, his gaze ping-ponging between my face and the weaponized avocado seed. His Adam’s apple rises and falls as he takes an instinctive half-step back.
“It sucked.” He leans against the doorframe, trying to look casual, but the stiffness in his shoulders betrays him.
