"The mind replays what the heart can't delete. "
Willa
𓇼𓇼𓇼𓇼

I land the final pirouette with precision, my toes grazing the floor like a whisper. The music fades, leaving nothing but my own ragged breath filling the space. I should feel satisfied. I was the best in the room today. Most days I'm the best in this room.

But it's not enough.

I catch my reflection in the mirror, my muscles trembling, sweat clinging to my skin, and all I see are flaws. My turnout could be sharper. My arms weren't soft enough. I could've held that balance longer.

Better. I need to be better.

"Beautiful, Willa," my teacher praises, but the words barely register.

I swallow the frustration threatening to choke me and nod absently, my fingers already untying my pointe shoes. Around me, the other girls chatter, peeling off layers, scrolling through their phones, talking about weekend plans like they weren't just in the middle of hours of grueling practice.

Sienna and Helen giggle at something, their whispered conversation full of warmth, but I don't have it in me to join. My skin itches with frustration, with self-loathing, with the overwhelming feeling that I should be better than I am.

I shove my shoes into my bag and sling it over my shoulder. I need air. I need to move. The moment I step outside, the cool night air rushes over me, a stark contrast to the heat still clinging to my skin. I close my eyes for a second, willing the tension to drain from my body.

But then the scent hits me.

Cigarette smoke.

It curls in the air, thick and unmistakable. It mixes with something sharper, something heavier.

I already know who I'll find before I even look. But still, I send a silent prayer to whoever's listening.

Please. Let him be anywhere but here. Please don't let him be with the potheads of our year.

I turn the corner.

And there he is.

Dominic leans against his motorcycle like he belongs there, one foot propped on the ground, a joint balanced between his fingers. He looks effortless, like he stepped straight out of some dark, tragic novel—and maybe he did.

Alec stands beside him, saying something that makes him smirk. A few others are there too—guys from school, the ones who always skipped class to smoke behind the gym. I barely recognize most of them, but it doesn't matter. The sight of him is enough.

It's too familiar. Too easy. Too much like before.

Like he never left.

Ignoring him at lunch today felt strange—unnatural, even. I could feel his eyes on me, heavy and unrelenting, like a phantom touch against my skin. It took everything in me to keep my head down, to laugh at Alex's jokes like I didn't notice, like I didn't care.

But I did.

Because for years, Dominic was always beside me, stealing my food, nudging my shoulder, making some sarcastic remark that would have me rolling my eyes but smiling anyway. And now? Now I had to pretend he was just another face in the crowd. Like he hadn't once been my whole world.

I force myself to wave at Alec, my lips pressing into something that barely resembles a smile. He winks back, clearly reading every emotion in my eyes.

Then my gaze locks onto Dominic's cigarette, the way the embers glow in the dark.

And something inside me snaps.

This is why he left.

I might have loved him, and maybe he felt something close to it. But in the end, he always loved this more.

The drugs. I would always come second to them.

"You're still smoking?" I bite out, my voice sharper than I intended.

Dominic exhales slowly, his eyes flicking toward me as he passes the joint to one of the guys next to him—a guy who's shamelessly checking me out in my tight leotard. "Nice to see you too, Butterfly."

Butterfly.

I hate that nickname. Hate that it still has the power to make my chest tighten, to stir something in me that should have died the day he left.

"Don't call me that," I say, ignoring the way the crowd around him suddenly decides this is a good time to be anywhere but here.

Dom just sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. "You always had a thing about lecturing me."

"Yeah? And you always had a thing about ruining yourself."

His expression darkens. We stare at each other, the weight of everything we never said pressing down on us.

He used to be my best friend.

"How are you getting home?" he asks, like our argument never happened.

"The bus."

He scoffs. "Not happening."

I cross my arms. "Excuse me?"

"It's late, Willa. Get on the bike."

I let out a humorless laugh. "You must be out of your mind if you think I'm getting on that death trap with you while you're high."

"I've barely had anything today, so don't start with me. And I've been riding for years."

"And I've been walking for years. I think I'll manage."

He pushes off the bike and closes the space between us. I should move. I should turn and walk away. But I don't.

"Willa," he says, voice low and steady. "Get on the bike."

His presence is overwhelming. It always has been. He towers over me, all broad shoulders and bad decisions, his scent a mix of weed and something undeniably him.

I glare up at him, refusing to let him think he's won. But deep down, I know he won't budge.

And the truth is, I missed this.

I missed the late-night rides, the feeling of wind whipping through my hair, the way he used to take me anywhere I wanted, no questions asked. I used to sit behind him for hours, my arms wrapped around his waist, my head resting against his back, the roar of the engine drowning out the world.

I missed it. I missed him.

And I hate that I did.

I also hate that I know it would be a bad idea to walk home in the dark, but god forbid dad just had to put my car into service yesterday.

"Fine," I grit out.

His lips twitch like he wants to smirk, but he doesn't. He hands me his helmet, waiting as I strap it on.

I hesitate before getting on. My hands hover near his back, refusing to wrap around him.

"You're going to fall off," he says.

"I'll be fine."

"Willa."

I grit my teeth and finally place my hands on his jacket. Not around him—just resting.

The bike roars to life, and then we're off.

The wind hits me like a shock to the system, cold and sharp against my skin. The world blurs past us, and for the first time all day, my thoughts stop racing.

It's too fast. Too reckless. Too much like him.

For a split second, I let myself press closer. Just for balance. Just because it's cold.

Just because it's him.

The city lights streak by, casting fleeting shadows on the road. Every turn feels effortless, like he's done this a thousand times. Like he still remembers how to keep me safe, even when he's the biggest danger in my life.

When we reach my house, he slows to a stop, the engine rumbling beneath us. I climb off before he can say anything, pulling off the helmet and shoving it into his hands.

I feel his eyes on me, waiting. Like he wants to say something.

I don't let him.

"Thanks," I mutter, already turning toward the door.

"Willa—"

But I don't stop. I don't look back.

Because if I do, I might make the mistake of believing he's still the boy I once loved.

And I can't make that mistake again.

𓇼𓇼𓇼𓇼

guys I know this is quite a short chapter but I've been in a rush to upload it as I am studying so hard for exams at the moment😭😭

Any predictions????