Page 10 of June

I opened my eyes to a ceiling that wasn't mine. Quiet. Still. A guest room in my father's home that smelled faintly of lemon balm and old books. The morning sun filtered through the curtains in soft lines, and all I could do was lie there and let the weight of what today was crush me in silence. Today was the day I was supposed to get married.

I didn't move. My heart moved enough for the rest of me, aching, unraveling.

My phone buzzed, a series of messages one after another. I ignored them for a few minutes before reaching over with a heavy arm and unlocking the screen.

May.

"I know today feels like a grave, babe. But even flowers grow out of those. Sending you all the love I can paint into the world."

December.

"I'm thinking of you every second. You don't have to do anything today. Just breathe, love. That's enough."

March.

"My bike and I are revving in your honor. Honk if you need me to kidnap you for a road trip. Or ice cream. Or vengeance. All valid."

January.

"I love you, but I'm not going to coddle you. You were about to marry a man who was never in your league. That's not romantic, June—it's tragic. So grieve if you have to, but don't you dare shrink yourself to fit the memory of someone so profoundly average. You're not disposable, but he sure is trash."

I dropped the phone against my chest and stared at the ceiling again, lips trembling. They all knew today would wreck me. And it did. It absolutely did. I must have been lying there for hours before the door creaked open.

Dad didn't knock. He never did when I was small and crying behind the door. He just came in and sat beside me, like gravity had called him too.

"You ever heard a tree crack in the middle of a storm?"

he asked.

"It sounds like the world splitting in half. But it's just making room for new branches."

He ran his hand through my hair. That same callused palm that used to tie my shoelaces and brush back jelly-sticky bangs.

"Heartbreak,"

he said slowly.

"is part of life. It's cruel. Unfair. It doesn't wait for you to be ready. It just takes. But it also shows you where your heart lived. Where it burned. And that's not nothing."

I sniffed. My voice cracked.

"Your heartbreak was worse."

He paused, then gave me that small, tired smile he's worn for years—the one that carried every ache he never said out loud.

"Maybe it was. But pain isn't a contest, Junie. There's no trophy for suffering more. Just people trying to walk through fire without losing themselves. You're allowed to burn. Just don't disappear."

And that—God—that was the moment I cracked open. I folded into him, a soft sob shaking through my ribs as he held me the way he used to after nightmares. Only this time, the monster was real. And it had a name.

He held me until the storm inside me quieted, and then he leaned back and said.

"Aaron left something. A message. He called me, and when I didn't pick up, he sent a text. Long one. It's on my phone, if you want it."

He placed the phone on the nightstand. No pressure. No push. Just there.

Then he left the room.

It took me a while to reach for it. But eventually, my curiosity overcame the dread. I braced myself and read.

June.

I wish I had the right words. I don't. But I can't let today pass without saying something. You were supposed to wear white today. You were supposed to be walking toward me. And I was supposed to be the man worthy of that.

But I wasn't. I wasn't even close.

I don't know when I started chasing the past, but I know it blinded me. I thought I owed something to that younger version of me, the boy who never got closure. I was wrong. What I owed was to you. To us.

And I burned it all down trying to feel something that never truly existed.

You were the home I stopped noticing because I was staring out windows looking for something else. But there was nothing more. Nothing better. Just a fantasy. A ghost.

You brought life into my world, June. You made the studio breathe, you made me believe in things. And I let fear turn me into someone I hate.

I know sorry isn't enough. I don't deserve forgiveness. I don't even expect a reply. I just wanted you to know that I see it now. I see you. And I will carry the weight of losing you for the rest of my life.

I'll never stop regretting it. I'll never stop loving you. I will do everything and anything to make up for my errors. I love you June, just believe that.

Always Yours, Aaron.

I read it again. Then again. Until the screen blurred and my breath hiccupped in my chest. My hand gripped the phone like it could hold me back from falling apart. But it couldn't.

So I mourned. I mourned what today was supposed to be. The vows I never said. The first dance we never had. The laughter, the cake, the impossible dream. I let it all go, one silent sob at a time.

The next morning, I got up.

I didn't want to. But I did. Because part of grieving is surviving. And part of surviving is choosing to step forward, even if the air still hurts your lungs. I showered. Dressed in something soft. Comfortable. And I drove.

The studio sat just where it always had, between the flower shop and the bakery. The smell of sweet dough and lilies hit me as I parked. For a second, I hesitated at the door. Then I pushed it open. The light inside was golden and warm, spilling across scuffed wood floors and worn barres. Studio B was still standing like a memory that never left.

"June!"

Elena called out, stepping from the back in her signature all-black ensemble and elegant bun. She looked at me like I was twelve again.

"Oh, look at you. You've grown into your mother's legs."

I smiled softly.

"I missed this place."

"Well,"

she said, squeezing my hands.

"this place missed you. Are you back?"

"I don't know,"

I said truthfully.

She tilted her head.

"I need a teacher. Just for a while. Until your heart steadies again. You'd be perfect."

I laughed.

"You sure? I might cry during pliés."

"Then cry and keep going. That's what dance is for."

She left to grab her planner, and I wandered into the open studio. The walls were lined with mirrored memories. The corners still held the echoes of my mother's laugh. I touched the barre with my fingertips and closed my eyes.

"Uh—sorry, is this the front desk?"

I turned to the doorway, and there he stood.

There was something undeniably handsome about him, but not in the way that made rooms stop or hearts race on instinct. No, his was the kind of handsomeness you noticed slowly, like a song you didn't realize you'd memorized until you caught yourself humming it.

It was in the way he stood, buttoned-up and a little too proper, like he was born out of a different time. The kind of man who'd carry a handkerchief in his pocket and mean it. His hair was slightly tousled and his glasses sat a little crooked on his nose, softening the sharp lines of his face.

There was an old-world grace about him, quiet and unassuming, like he'd read too many books and memorized the way to ask someone how they were and actually mean it. Handsome in a way that made you want to look twice—not because he asked for it, but because he didn't.

He blinked at me in panic.

"I think I'm lost,"

he said, voice gentle, almost apologetic.

"This is the studio for adult classes, right? Someone told me to ask for a... June?"

I smiled before I even meant to.

From the hallway, Elena called out.

"Oh! yes. That's her. June is—hopefully—your new teacher."

He flushed a little, eyes flicking back to me.

"Oh. Great. I mean—great for me, not, like, pressure on you, or—uh, sorry. I'm Liam."

He extended his hand.

I took it.

"I'm June. And I guess I am your teacher."

That's when I noticed his eyes—blue, but not the kind that shouted. No piercing ice, no storm. Just soft, steady blue. Like he carried constellations behind his lashes—faint, patient, waiting to be named.

He smiled again—awkward, a little crooked—and the blue in his eyes brightened, like water catching sunshine.