I smile through swollen eyes.
Of course he did. When DJ and I got Ajaih we also got a whole unit of others that love us as hard as she does. Speaking of DJ—he was stationed overseas but I planned to text him and remind him how much I loved him when I got home.
I swing my legs over the bed slowly, mindful of the stiffness still lingering in my joints. My body feels fragile in the mornings after a flare. It’s as if it’s deciding whether to cooperate or not.
“Not today,” I murmur softly to myself.
I shower carefully, letting the hot water ease the tension in my muscles. I take my meds and pack my work bag. I choose comfortable but polished work attire. My place at dance academy won’t run itself and I refuse to let sickle cell dictate my ambition.
When I look at myself in the mirror, I see exhaustion.
But I also see resolve.
I see a woman who is loved deeply.
By her siblings.
By Zaria.
By Calil.
By parents who are far more evolved than she gave them credit for. That love and support changes everything.
I press the note flat on my dresser, smoothing it like it’s sacred. Then I grab my keys and head out the door. Today, I choose to live loudly. Even if my body tries to whisper otherwise.
By the time I pull into the lot at Winston Hills Dance Academy, the sun is high and unapologetic. I sit in my car for a moment, hands resting on the steering wheel, feeling the familiar hum in my joints. Not pain. Just a reminder.
I can do this.
Inside, the studio smells like rosin and clean wood floors. The faint echo of pointe shoes tapping in the distance comforts something inside me. This has always been my sanctuary.
My first session of the day is with Ava.
Nineteen. Brilliant. Technically sharp. Hollowed out by grief.
Her mother died suddenly three months ago. An aneurysm. No warning. No goodbye. Since then, her dancing has changed. Technically she’s still excellent, but something in her upper body collapses mid-phrase. Her arms hesitate. Her turns falter.
Grief lives in posture.
She’s already in Studio B when I walk in. I notice her sitting cross-legged on the floor, staring at the mirror like it might answer something for her.
“Morning,” I say gently.
She nods. “Morning.”
We don’t rush. I sit across from her instead of standing. “How does your body feel today.”
She shrugs. “Heavy.”
“Where?”
She presses a hand to her chest. “Here and my shoulders.”
I nod. “Okay. Let’s not fix it. Let’s listen to it.”
She looks at me uncertainly.
“Stand up,” I say softly.
