Page 11 of His Drama Queen

"I'm not her," I say, though I'm not sure if I'm trying to convince him or myself.

"No," Dad agrees. "You're not. You're you."

"How do you know I won't run too?"

"Because you're still here. Because you're packing for Columbus instead of packing to disappear. Because even with those marks on your neck and that fever burning you up, you're planning your next performance instead of your escape."

He stands, heading for the door, then pauses. "She would have been proud of you, Vespera. For fighting. For refusing to let them win. For choosing your art over their demands."

After he leaves, I return to packing, each item a small act of defiance. My makeup kit, filled with everything needed to become someone else. My rehearsal journal, pages ready to be filled with new characters, new stories, new versions of myself that have nothing to do with biology or bonds or boys who think they own me.

At the bottom of my drawer, I find it—the program from that first performance when I was eight. Mom had saved it, pressed it into a scrapbook with a photo of us backstage. Her arms around me, both of us glowing with post-performance adrenaline. On the back, in her handwriting:"My little star, burning bright. May you always own your stage."

I trace the words, feeling them like a blessing and a curse. She knew, even then. Knew I had something special. And she left anyway.

But I'm not leaving. I'm going to Columbus, yes, but not to run. To train. To get stronger. To become someone who can return to Northwood and face them without breaking.

The marks throb again, and this time I welcome the pain. It reminds me what I survived. What I rejected. What I chose to lose rather than surrender.

I fold Mom's program carefully and place it in my suitcase, between the leotards and the character shoes. A talisman. A reminder. A promise to the girl who sang at eight and the woman who ran at thirty-something and the eighteen-year-old caught between them.

The sun is setting, painting my room gold and red like stage lights. Tomorrow I'll be stronger. In three days I'll be in Columbus. In six weeks I'll perform Medea with such fury that the audience will understand exactly what happens when you corner someone who has nothing left to lose.

"The sun'll come out tomorrow,"I whisper, the lyrics twisted into threat instead of promise.

And if it doesn't? If the fever takes me before Columbus? If the rejection finally wins?

Then at least I'll die as myself.

The girl who sang. The woman who said no. Someone who owned her stage until the very last curtain call.

That has to be enough.

five

Corvus

Thespreadsheetcontainsforty-threeseparate data points tracking our collective deterioration.

Row twenty-four updates with clinical precision:Day 12 - Subject C (self) - Temperature 101.2°F, weight loss 8 lbs, cognitive function 94% baseline, emotional regulation compromised.Clinical language helps maintain distance from the reality that my body is systematically failing without her.

My hand trembles slightly as I type, a micro-tremor documented since day three. Unlike Dorian's violent destruction or Oakley's desperate caretaking, my rejection sickness manifests in these small betrayals of control. Fever burns lower but constant. Weight loss concealed by strategically layered clothing. The cognitive decline negligible enough that neither of my packmates has noticed.

They don't need to know that I haven't slept more than two hours at a time since she left. That would be inefficient data for our current objective.

"Corvus." Oakley's voice from my doorway. The spreadsheet minimizes before he can see it, Columbus research taking its place. "How are you feeling?"

"Functional." Posture adjusts to hide the tension in my shoulders, the way my muscles ache constantly now. "I've completed the reconnaissance on the summer program."

He enters my room—pristine where Dorian's is destroyed, everything in its designated place except for the woman who should be here. "And?"

"She begins in three days. The program houses participants in renovated dormitories on the Columbus Theater District campus. Security is minimal—keycard access only, no guards, no cameras in residential hallways." The building schematics appear on screen, obtained through a contact in their facilities department. "She'll be in room 314. Third floor, northeast corner. Fire escape access."

"You've been thorough." There's concern in his voice. Oakley always was too perceptive. "When's the last time you ate?"

"This morning." The lie comes easily. Solid food hasn't stayed down for four days, but that's irrelevant to our planning.

"Corvus—"