He looks at me, appalled. “Oh yeah, I completely forgot you were a weirdo.”
I stick my finger up at him, making him laugh.
A song starts on his phone. My lip presses between my teeth, and a sudden warmth blooms behind my eyes. Ordinary by Alex Warren.
My favourite.
The song carries me back—driving around with Dad, windows down, the wind tangling in my hair, or sitting quietly by his bed when he was too weak to leave it, headphones pressed to my ears, letting the music stitch some kind of peace into the sadness I felt.
I swallow hard, blinking rapidly as the tears I've been holding back prick at the corners of my eyes.
“No pressure,” he says, pointing toward the small desk opposite the mirrors. “I’ll sit over there.”
I nod, grateful for the space, and he wanders off with his easy, laid-back stride, leaving me alone with the music.
The song fills the studio—soft and beautiful, wrapping around the room like it belongs here. I walk slowly to the centre, every step tugging loose another memory. My fingers tremble as I toe off my shoes, shrugging out of my jacket until it slips from my shoulders. Now I’m just in a strappy top and black joggers.
I toss everything behind me with a careless flick, pretending I’m braver than I feel.
Finally, I face the mirror.
There's a faint pink in my cheeks now, a little more life in my skin. My green eyes stare back at me, and the sadness is still there—but it doesn't look as noticeable, not as consuming as it was in those first awful days without Dad.
Grief used to swallow me whole, and I let it.
Now it only lingers.
It ebbs and flows like the sea—some days it rises in a dark, roaring swell, fierce enough to pull me beneath its depths. Other days, it laps at me in hushed, silvered tides, a quiet pain Ican stand within, almost serene in its sorrow, something I am learning to carry rather than drown in.
I take a deep breath, closing my eyes, letting the melody guide me, reminding my body of a language it hasn't spoken in far too long. Slowly, I lift my arms, reaching upward, fingertips stretching toward something unseen, as if the air itself holds weight. I rise onto one tiptoe, the other leg lifting behind me, a burn threading through my calf and thigh, sharp and welcome.
I've missed this. The ache of effort. The serene demand to be graceful.
My body remembers before my heart does.
I turn in a gentle circle, arms floating wide, spine tall and proud. The polished floor gleams beneath me as I glide forward, toes brushing softly against the wood, letting the music flow through each measured step. When the melody swells, my shoulders loosen, and I let myself melt into it, surrendering completely to the rhythm. I fold into a crouch, weight curling inward, knees tucked close to my chest, and then the chorus lifts me. I roll backwards, flipping lightly onto my feet again, fluid and instinctive, letting every movement carry the memory of myself—the dancer I used to be.
Leaps follow, light and unhurried, carrying me across the studio. My feet barely whisper on the wood. I spin, landing softly, then drift into another turn. The music becomes louder, pulling me down to the floor again. I stretch out my back, eyes tracing the ceiling lights, chest rising and falling in time with every note. Slowly, I lift, arching my spine, vertebrae stretching as if I’m offering everything I've held inside to the sky.
I flip upright, arms reaching wide, and I pirouette. One turn flows into another, and another after that, until I lose count. The mirrors catch every motion, every line, every extension of my hands, soft as feathers suspended in the air.
The music cuts off, leaving only an echo of my breath in the quiet studio. My legs shake, my heart hammers, and my chest rises and falls too fast. I glance over my shoulder and see River. Phone in his hand, aiming at me, a wide, proud smile lighting up his face. The moment his eyes meet mine, he lowers his phone, and for a second, it feels like the world has shrunk down to just us.
“That was… fucking amazing,” he breathes.
My bottom lip trembles, and I sniffle, nodding, waves of happiness and grief crashing over me all at once. I hardly register him moving closer before he wraps me in a huge, grounding hug. I collapse against him, clutching at his back as tears spill freely, the sobs I've held in for so long finally breaking free.
He rests his chin on my head, strong and steady, and for the first time since I lost him, I let someone see me break, someone hold the pieces as they fall.
We step into the coffee shop—Beantastics, which, I have to admit, is a pretty good name—and the bell above the door jingles, letting warmth spill over me. The rich scent of coffee mingles with something sweet, and it feels instantly comforting, like I could curl up here for hours.
The shop is cosy but full of character. Sunlight pours through large windows framed in dark, polished wood, the frosted glass halfway down scattering soft, golden patterns across the floor. Circular wooden tables are spread throughout, paired with mismatched chairs that somehow feel intentional, welcoming, and not random. Along one wall, plush booths beckon like little private islands, their cushions soft and worn in the best way. Bookshelves line one another, stacked high with well-lovednovels; spines of every colour and texture promise quiet escapes. And then, on the walls themselves, pages from books have been framed into art, swirling upward in whimsical patterns, catching the glow from warm hanging lamps, turning words into decoration and poetry into atmosphere.
“Wow,” I say, letting my eyes sweep over everything. River is already studying the counter, which is small and tidy, with glass shelves showcasing cakes, tarts, and pastries, each one arranged like a miniature masterpiece. Behind it stands a tall woman, well, she looks taller than me, completely absorbed in a book. Her dark hair is streaked with bold red and pink strands that frame her heart-shaped face, and the corners of her lips tug into a smirk.
Must be a good book.
Her tanned skin glows under the lights, and she seems as much a part of the shop as the coffee aroma itself.
