Page 19 of June

There's a quiet kind of tenderness in repetition.

A closeness that doesn't arrive all at once, but builds slowly—in the quiet rhythm of showing up and dancing and laughing, and Liam kept showing up. Week after week, in mismatched socks and starlit metaphors in tow. He moved like someone trying to unlearn gravity—stiff at first, cautious. Like he was afraid of breaking something. As we danced and talked, we found ourselves drawing closer — with every word, every glance, every shared secret.

The dance studio held us gently in its hush, the kind of silence that hums rather than echoes. Only the soft scrape of our shoes broke it, a delicate heartbeat against the polished wood. The mirrored walls threw our shapes back at us—flickering versions of who we were, who we might be. Two people somewhere between grace and uncertainty, trying to find rhythm in the same silence.

I stepped in, closing the small space between us. A light touch on his arm, adjusting his posture.

He followed, focused—his brow furrowed in that adorable, stubborn way. Determined. Endearing.

Then he messed up the step again—not badly, just enough to knock us out of sync. His left foot slid where it should have stepped, and we bumped into each other with an awkward thud. For a second, we scrambled to find our balance, arms flailing, stifled laughter on our tongues.

"Sorry!"

he gasped, eyes wide with mock horror.

"That was... not part of the choreography, I assume?"

I laughed, my hands reaching out instinctively to steady us as we swayed precariously.

"Nope. But bonus points for style. You almost invented a new genre."

He smirked, that little glint in his eyes lighting up like a star about to explode. "

humm.. Interpretive gravitational collapse? Maybe you should pitch that to the dance world."

I laughed and rolled my eyes.

"You did not just bring physics into my dance studio again!"

He brushed a curl of hair off his forehead, the movement casual, yet deliberate.

"You know,"

he said, voice low and playful.

"technically, gravity is a dance. A cosmic waltz of attraction and inertia."

I raised an eyebrow, fighting to keep the smile from breaking free.

"Really? A waltz? what am I in this metaphor? the Earth? the Sun?"

He tilted his head, looking at me.

"The whole damn universe June."

I blinked, momentarily stunned by the unexpected words. He immediately looked away, his ears now matching the color of his cheeks.

"I mean....You're not just a planet in this metaphor. You're the whole gravitational well. I'm... well, I'm like a moon caught in your orbit."

My cheeks flushed—something about the way he said it, all scientific and smooth, made it impossible to pretend I didn't feel the rush of warmth his words stirred.

"Liam,"

I said, a little breathless.

"You can't just drop a line like that.."

His lips quirked into a smile, the playful energy still there but with something deeper now, like the pull of a galaxy just beyond our reach.

"Hey, I warned you. I've been hanging out with stars all my life. Can't help but talk like one now and then."

"Well,"

I said, feeling the warmth spread from my cheeks to my chest, "

I can't deal with that kind of heat."

He raised an eyebrow, his smirk widening.

"Oh, don't worry. I'm more of a red giant. Slow burn. But steady."

I rolled my eyes, laughter bubbling up despite myself.

"You're unbelievable."

"Hey,"

he said, mock-offended.

"I'm just trying to connect the material to my strengths. If I'm going to make a fool of myself, I might as well be a scientifically accurate fool."

"You're not a fool,"

I said. Then paused.

"Maybe a nerd. A very committed, charming nerd."

He perked up.

"I'll take that. Nerds make great partners. We calculate all the ways we could mess up in advance."

"And yet,"

I said, guiding him through another turn.

"you still manage to mess up anyway."

"I know,"

he said solemnly.

"It's my tragic flaw. Like Oedipus, but with jazz hands."

I burst out laughing.

"Okay, you win."

"Yes!"

He threw a triumphant fist into the air, then immediately tripped on his own foot.

I caught him before he could fall—again—and we stood there for a second, closer than we'd planned, faces inches apart.

His expression softened.

"Thanks. For not giving up on me."

I shrugged.

"You're not the kind of student people give up on."

"Because I'm promising?"

"Because you're stubborn,"

I said, grinning.

He grinned back.

"Well, yeah. I have to be. I'm trying to impress a woman who pirouettes like gravity isn't even a thing."

That caught me off guard. I felt my cheeks warm.

"You're impossible."

"Accurate,"

he said.

"But in my defense, dancing is hard when your usual experience with movement involves plotting orbital trajectories and occasionally forgetting how knees work."

"You're better than you think."

He looked at me, eyes steady behind those glasses, a lopsided smile tugging at his mouth.

"I just want to get it right. For her."

I nodded softly.

"Tell me more about her? "

His gaze drifted—slow and soft—like he was following stardust no one else could see, plucking memory from a sky only he could read.

"She used to dance in the kitchen,"

he said, voice barely more than breath.

"She'd spin with me in her arms, bare feet on tile, humming old love songs while the pasta boiled over behind her. She never noticed. Or maybe she just didn't care."

His eyes shimmered, lit with something that wasn't quite sadness, but not far from it either.

"Everything she touched felt like music,"

he whispered.

"Even the silence. Even the burnt sauce and the broken timer."

There was a pause, and I didn't dare fill it. It felt like he was holding something fragile—like if I breathed too loudly, it might crack.

He smiled faintly then.

"Now... she forgets the songs. She forgets the words, even the names. But if I hum the right one, just the right rhythm..."

His hand twitched slightly, like mimicking the beat.

"She'll tap her fingers. On her lap. On the armrest. Like something inside her still remembers. Like the music's still there, hidden somewhere the illness hasn't touched."

I felt the ache of it echo in my chest, the kind that doesn't ask for pity—only space.

He looked at me, eyes clear and aching.

"I want to give her just a little piece of what she gave me."

My throat tightened. Because that's the kind of love that doesn't fade when memory does.

It hums. It lingers. It dances.

Then—like a string snapping under too much pressure—the door creaked open behind us.

I didn't need to look. I felt it—the sudden chill gripping the room, the way Liam's hand stiffened slightly in mine, the invisible noose tightening around my throat.

Aaron.

Liam turned first, his movements slow, deliberate. His hand brushed mine one last time before falling away, leaving behind a ghost of warmth in the cold.

I followed his gaze.

Aaron stood framed in the doorway, arms crossed, posture rigid. His jaw was locked tight, his mouth a hard, grim line. But it was his eyes—the way they raked over the scene before him—that cut deepest. He looked at us like a wildfire surveying a forest, ready to consume every trace of what once was.

The air between us crackled, heavy and brittle. I swallowed hard.

"Liam, this is Aaron. Aaron... Liam."

Liam gave a nod—polite, detached—the kind of nod you offer a rival before a duel. His mouth twisted into a faint smile that didn't touch his eyes.

""Oh, hi, we were just discussing cosmic parasites, nice to finally meet you."

Aaron didn't smile. He didn't move. His gaze dropped for the briefest second to where Liam's hand had been on mine, and something dark flickered across his face.

I cleared my throat, forcing my voice through the thick tension.

"Aaron, what are you doing here?"

His stare pinned me where I stood. There was something desperate in it, something fractured. His voice low, almost hoarse.

"I thought we could talk."

I stood frozen, torn between a thousand versions of myself—the girl who once would have run to him, the woman who now felt the ground shifting under her feet.

Aaron stepped forward, just slightly. "Alone,"

he added, pointedly.

The word sliced the air between us. I felt Liam shift beside me in quiet, steady loyalty. He didn't move to hold me back. He simply stood there, waiting. Letting me decide.

I turned to him. Liam's eyes met mine—blue, open, steady, without a hint of pressure. If anything, there was a kind of pride in them. A silent vow that no matter what I chose, I wouldn't be standing alone.

He gave a small nod, the ghost of a grin tugging at his lips. I'll be outside,"

he said with a grin.

"Decoding star charts in the parking lot. Shout if you need backup—or a dramatic exit strategy.."

A breathless laugh broke free from my chest, shaky but real. Then he stepped closer—close enough that only I could hear him—and whispered, fierce and sure.

"You owe him nothing. Your only debt is to your own happiness."

He squeezed my hand once, firm and grounding. Then he turned and walked away without another word, without another glance back, leaving me standing in the eye of the storm.

Aaron took a breath, as if steeling himself. The door clicked shut behind Liam, leaving me alone with the past I'd been running from—and the future waiting for me to claim it. The silence stretched between us like a tightrope, fraying. Aaron's eyes were glassy now, but his voice stayed low, careful—like he knew one wrong move would send the whole moment crashing.

"June..."

His voice was raw silk.

"Please. Just... tell me what to do. Anything. If there's something—anything—I can do to make you forgive me, I'll do it. I swear."

I didn't answer. Not right away. Just looked at him. This boy who once held all my love in his hands and treated it like something replaceable. This man now standing in front of me like the ache in his chest was new—like mine hadn't been echoing for months before he noticed.

He waited. And I let him. Because sometimes silence is the only way to show how deep the wound really went. He stepped closer, his expression cracking.

"Say something. Yell at me. Curse me out—just... don't shut me out."

I swallowed hard. The words came like breath through a bruise.

"I already said everything, Aaron."

My voice didn't shake. It was still, and it was final.

"You made your choice. And when you did, you taught me how to survive without you."

He flinched. Just barely.

"So now..."

I exhaled slowly, evenly.

"Do it again. Leave me alone."

His brows drew in. "June—"

"No."

One word. Clear. Full stop.

"I'm asking for space. And if there's even an ounce of respect left in you, you'll give me that. You'll give me the quiet I need to finally stop bleeding."

He gave a small nod and turned away, the weight of it pulling his shoulders down. After a while, I stepped out of the studio like I was surfacing from underwater—lungs tight, chest heavy, silence ringing in my ears. The city evening had softened; the air cool but not unkind. I needed that—kindness. Quiet. I wasn't even sure where I was going, only that I needed to not be in there anymore.

Then I saw him.

Liam was sitting on the low wall by the streetlamp, knees drawn up, iPad in his lap, the screen casting a soft glow on his face. He looked up the second the door shut behind me. No questions. Just that look—open, warm, steady.

"Hey,"

he said, his voice as gentle as starlight.

""I thought I'd wait for you. You don't have to say anything. Just... come sit?"

I walked to him before I could think too much about it, the tension in my shoulders loosening with every step. He scooted over, made space like he always did. As I sat beside him, he didn't reach for me. He didn't crowd the moment. He just offered me quiet. Safety. A soft space to fall into.

"I was just charting the night,"

he said, glancing back at the screen.

"Apparently, the moon's in Gemini. Which either means emotional duality or that the universe wants us to go dancing again."

I smiled faintly. He saw it. I could feel him watching me out of the corner of his eye—carefully, like I was made of something fragile and worth protecting. He shifted slightly, then turned to me fully, voice lower now.

"I know that was hard. You don't have to explain anything. But I'm really glad you came out here."

I swallowed, my throat thick.

"I didn't want to be alone."

"You're not,"

he said, without hesitation.

"Not tonight. Not any night, if I can help it."

I looked at him then, really looked—at the way his hair curled over his forehead, at the way his fingers fidgeted with the edge of the iPad case, at the soft nervous energy that always seemed to live beneath his calm.

He smiled, a little dazed, like he was standing on the edge of a dream he hadn't quite dared to believe in.

"I was going to give this whole... speech,"

he said, rubbing the back of his neck. His voice was low, shy, the words tumbling over each other.

"Something about stars, and journeys, and, um... destinations that feel a lot less lonely when you have the right person beside you."

He laughed under his breath, the sound almost apologetic.

"But maybe that's a bit much for just... suggesting that, you know, there's this place. Past the old observatory. No lights, no noise. Just the sky."

He glanced sideways at me, cheeks tinged pink.

"I've got a telescope. Snacks. Maybe a dumb playlist called 'Celestial Bops.' You know... in case someone wanted to escape the world for a little while."

I blinked at him, heart fluttering. "Liam,"

I said, trying not to smile too much.

"are you asking me on a stargazing date?"

He froze, like he hadn't realized he was being quite that obvious, then laughed, soft and breathless.

"Only if you want it to be,"

he said, voice suddenly tender.

"But, yeah... I was kind of hoping you'd say yes."

The laugh that rose in my chest felt like it had been waiting there for a long time—quiet, bright, a little fragile, but real.

I stepped closer, my voice gentle.

"It's a yes."

Liam's smile bloomed, slow and golden, like he was unfolding with the morning light.

"Yeah?"

he whispered, the word like a promise.

"Yeah,"

I whispered back.

He smiled, slow and sure.

"Looks like the stars finally lined up for me."