Page 25 of June

I folded my arms, leaning against the doorframe as Aaron finished telling me about volunteering.

"I'm glad you decided to help,"

I said, keeping my tone even but not warm.

"We need all the hands we can get. But let's be clear, while you might have thought I was alone... I wasn't. I had—and still have—a strong support system. Even your mom and grandma were there for me."

His jaw tightened slightly at that, a muscle twitching near his temple. He shifted his weight, like he wanted to say something but knew it wouldn't land well.

I didn't give him the chance.

"We'll probably never be close friends,"

I continued, my voice sharper now.

"but we can be civil. We can work together without tearing each other apart. My trip to my dad's helped me let go of some grief... and some anger. But the biggest issue?"

I met his eyes head-on.

"I still don't trust you."

He exhaled slowly, like the words had landed heavier than he expected.

"I'm glad you're getting better,"

I went on, softening just a fraction.

"but don't hope for anything beyond civility. That's all I can give you."

He nodded slowly, his gaze locked on mine, scanning my face as if he could read between my words.

"I'm patient,"

he said finally.

"I'll try anything to win back your trust. I understand it might take a long time."

He hesitated, his voice dropping just slightly.

"But... I want to know something."

I frowned. "What?"

His eyes didn't waver.

"Is there someone else?"

My heart stuttered. In my mind, I saw beautiful blue eyes behind glasses, the ink of comets and galaxies dancing over forearms that had once held me steady in a spin. I didn't answer. Instead, I tilted my head and asked.

"So... how's Selene?"

The shock on his face was immediate. Regret pooled in his eyes, mixing with guilt so raw it almost softened me—almost.

"Fair enough,"

he muttered.

"But I haven't seen her since we... parted ways. She called, but I blocked her."

I rolled my eyes and slung my bag over my shoulder.

"Good for you. Anyway, I have to go now."

"Wait, Junie."

I froze, noticing his hand reaching out, hesitating midair. My eyes caught the tattoo of the sun on his wrist—our little secret, a reminder that I was his sunshine. I didn't turn fully toward him. "What?"

"I know you won't believe me... but I do miss you, and I do love you. I'll be patient."

"Suit yourself,"

I said, and walked away without looking back. I left the conversation with Aaron feeling oddly lighter because the boundaries were there now, solid and unshakable. Civil, but not close.

The air outside was warm, the late-afternoon light slanting gold through the trees. Instead of heading straight home, I found myself wandering toward the small park near the studio, a canvas tote on my shoulder and my notebook tucked inside.

I picked a bench under a sycamore and let my mind drift. I had a dozen errands I could run—picking up fabric for costumes, grabbing extra water bottles, maybe some props—but my pen itched more than my feet. I opened my journal and began sketching out the bones of the upcoming performance.

The story wanted to be about heartache and survival. About falling apart and then rebuilding into something sharper, braver, freer. I could see flashes of movement already—a slow, aching duet with Leo, representing loss, before the students would rush in like a tidal wave of light. I thought about pairing it with a poem I loved, something with imagery of storms breaking and skies clearing, where the body became both the wound and the cure.

My phone buzzed, snapping me out of it. May. Followed quickly by Marchy's name lighting up too. I laughed and answered on speaker.

"Okay,"

May's voice rang out.

"spill. What exactly happened at your dad's? You've been all mysterious since then."

"Mysterious?"

I scoffed.

"I just... processed a lot. Less crying into my pillow, more sitting on docks staring at the horizon like I'm in a sad indie film."

"Oooh,"

Marchy said.

"did you at least get a soundtrack? Acoustic guitar? Waves crashing?"

We laughed, trading jokes and updates. They told me about their latest adventures, Marchy's failed attempt at paddleboarding that ended with a heroic rescue by a very unheroic teenager in a kayak and May's painting exhibition that accidentally turned into a minor gallery scandal because someone mistook her abstract work fo.

"satirical portraits."

Then May's voice softened, almost like she'd forgotten we were mid-conversation.

"You know... I still think about that time before my first exhibition, when I couldn't afford half the supplies I needed. I was panicking, ready to back out. And then Aaron just showed up with everything, canvases, paints, brushes like it was no big deal. When I asked him why, he just shrugged and said, 'You're June's friend, so you're my family and my friend too."

A flicker of old warmth passed through me. That had been the man I loved once. Thought I loved forever, but memory was a tricky liar, always leaving out the cracks in the frame.

"Yeah,"

I said, exhaling.

"He can be a good person but that doesn't mean I'm going back."

"Not even a tiny maybe?"

Marchy teased.

"Nope. I'm learning not to yell at him when I see him, and that's already progress. I'd rather put my energy into the choreography right now."

"I will never understand how he did what he did,"

May murmured, leaning forward on her elbows.

"I mean... this is someone I would've sworn on. I would've put money on his love for you. He looked at you like you were... it. Like you were the only person in the room. And now, knowing what he did—"

She broke off, shaking her head.

"It doesn't make sense."

Marchy let out a small, humorless laugh.

"Well... you'd be surprised. A lot of people seem so in love—post pictures, hold hands, give each other these perfect smiles—but you never really know what's going on in their heads. Maybe they're restless. Maybe they're scared. Maybe they just... don't know how to sit still with happiness. You can't see someone's thoughts, you can't crawl into their feelings, so you just have to take their word for it. And sometimes? Their word is worth nothing."

May then said with a grin.

"And what about Moonboy?"

I groaned.

"Oh my god—does everyone call him that?"

They both burst out laughing. "Yes!"

"So... what about him?"

May pressed.

I hesitated, then said.

"He's a wonderful man. He deserves my all. So until I'm sure I'm ready to give that and start something serious, until I'm all in, I'm not going to string him along."

May's smile softened.

"Good for you."

"Yes, anyway,"

I cut in sharply, forcing a smile that didn't reach my eyes.

"For now, I want to focus on the upcoming performance."

I tapped my notebook.

"I already have an idea for the choreography."

They didn't push. Instead, we drifted back into laughter and banter, the way we always did. And when the call ended, I sat in the park a little longer, pen scratching across paper, mapping out the story I wanted to tell onstage—a story where survival wasn't quiet, but fierce.

The following days and weeks passed as usual, coffee in the morning, rehearsals in the afternoons, falling asleep with aching muscles. We were deep in performance prep now: the stage crew marking positions with neon tape, the lighting team testing cues, the costume rack in the corner spilling sequins and silk. Aaron was everywhere, hauling set pieces, fetching extra rosin for the floor, adjusting the fog machine when it hissed too much.

He kept trying to pull me out for lunch or dinner. Every time, I said no. Today was no different. He caught me after rehearsal, hair damp with sweat, smiling hopefully as he asked again.

"No,"

I said, already turning away to grab my bag. He gave me this look, like a kicked puppy, and left alone. That's when Mora, our stage manager, slid up beside me.

"You know he's not going to wait for you forever."

I froze.

"Excuse me?"

She sighed like I was being deliberately obtuse.

"I mean, he's trying. He's really trying, and you're completely cold to him."

I blinked at her.

"How is this any of your business?"

"It's not,"

she said without hesitation.

"but I was with him and Leo last night."

She crossed her arms, hip pressed to the wall like she'd just claimed moral authority over the entire room.

"He looked... in pain, June. Not just guilty—wrecked. He kept circling back to you in every conversation, like he couldn't stop himself. Talking about how much he loves you, how much he regrets what he did, how he wishes he could undo it."

Her voice softened for a second, almost conspiratorial.

"He wasn't drunk. He wasn't trying to make excuses. He looked like someone who'd lost the air in his lungs and didn't know how to breathe without you."

Then, with a sharp tilt of her head, the softness vanished.

"My god June! have you never made a mistake before?"

she said.

"Never been so confused, or so scared, or so desperate that you did something you didn't even recognize yourself for? Never wanted to rewind time, take back one second, one sentence, one choice that ruined everything?"

She took a step closer, closing the space between us.

"Have you really never woken up in the middle of the night thinking, if I could just go back to that moment, I'd fix it? Because that's where he's living right now. That's all he talks about—how much he'd give to erase it."

She tilted her head, her gaze drilling into me.

"Do you even realize how many women would kill for someone to love them the way he loves you? To have someone so broken up over losing them that it physically hurts to watch?"

The audacity stunned me.

"You are not my friend, Mora. You're not even close enough to me to say these things. You don't know what happened, or how it's affected me."

"Yes, I do,"

she snapped, eyes flashing.

"Because he won't shut up about it. Because he's hurting."

She jabbed a finger toward the floor like it was some invisible proof.

"I know he hurt you, and yes, he did something stupid but come on! It was one mistake!"

"One mistake?"

I laughed—sharp, humorless.

"You call that a mistake? That wasn't forgetting my birthday or missing a dinner. That was a choice. A calculated, selfish, deliberate choice."

"Oh, come on,"

she shot back, her tone riding the edge between pleading and scolding.

"It wasn't calculated—he didn't sit there plotting how to hurt you. He was confused. He's human, for god's sake."

"No,"

I cut in, heat rising in my voice.

"Being human doesn't excuse betraying someone you claim to love. I trusted him with everything and he didn't just drop it, Mora. He smashed it. On purpose."

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn't back down.

"On purpose? You think he woke up one day and said, 'How can I destroy the best thing in my life'? You're rewriting this to make it easier to hate him. You're going to throw away six years over this?"

"HE threw them away!"

I yelled, my voice bouncing off the mirrors like shrapnel.

"He left me. He chose someone else."

"For two minutes—"

she cut in.

"It doesn't matter if it was two minutes or two years—"

"—and then he came crawling back to you!"

she finished over me, her tone triumphant, like she'd just scored some grand checkmate.

"Begging you to take him back, and you're still acting like you're the only one bleeding here."

"Oh, I'm sorry—am I supposed to feel bad for him now?"

I shot back, disbelief dripping from every word.

"Am I supposed to patch up his wounds when he's the one who stabbed me?"

"He stabbed himself too,"

she snapped.

"You think he's walking around fine? You think it doesn't eat him alive every single day? You think you're the only one who lost something? HE lost you!"

she fired back, stepping closer, her chin lifting like she'd just delivered the final blow.

"Why are you even talking to me about this? This is NONE of your business."

Leo walked in just then, eyes darting between us.

"What's going on? Why are you both yelling?"

I turned to him, my voice tight enough to cut glass.

"You tell this woman to leave me alone and stop meddling in my business."

Mora let out a short, dismissive laugh and rolled her eyes like I'd just said something childish.

"My god, get off your high horse,"

she scoffed.

"You think you're some noble victim in all this, but I think you enjoy watching him suffer. It feeds you, doesn't it? Makes you feel powerful having him at your feet, begging for scraps of your attention."

She jabbed a finger toward me, her tone sharp and unrelenting.

"Because that's the kind of person you are—selfish, arrogant, everyone's little princess who thinks the world owes her something just for breathing, but underneath all that sweet, perfect exterior? You're cold. You're vindictive, and one day, when you've pushed away the only man who ever truly loved you, you're going to regret it."

She leaned in slightly, her voice dropping to a venomous whisper.

"And by then, it'll be too late."

and then she left.

I just stared at her. Utterly stunned. Turning to Leo, I said.

"I want her out."

He hesitated.

"I wish I could, but we're too close to the deadline and she's good at her job."

I knew he was right so I left without another word, my chest tight, my hands trembling like I'd just touched live wires. Every step felt heavy, weighted with things I didn't want to admit—things I didn't even fully understand.

Am I really this person? I asked myself again and again. Cold, vindictive, arrogant? Is that what I've become because I can't seem to forgive Aaron? Because the cracks in my trust feel too wide to ever bridge?

I was still reeling, my mind spinning with thoughts I couldn't quite catch. Without even realizing it, my fingers kept tracing the delicate curve of the North Star bracelet, over and over, as if the familiar weight and cold metal could anchor me. Each gentle rub, each small press against my wrist, brought a flicker of calm, a momentary stillness in the storm swirling inside me.

Chaper Twenty-Five: Memories in Motion

The kitchen was warm with the smell of coffee and toasted bread, though the toast leaned dangerously toward burnt. January sat across from me in a pair of pale champagne-colored silk pajamas that costs more than my groceries, the fabric catching the morning light like water. Her hair was pulled into a sleek, perfectly tight bun—not a single strand out of place—and, as always, she looked effortlessly put together, like someone who could step out the door and land a magazine cover without trying.

We were already halfway through breakfast—her with a strong black coffee, me with tea—while I recounted my confrontation with Mora in detail. Every word Mora had thrown at me, I gave to January, unedited. I could see it building in her face, the faint arch of her brow, the tightening at the corner of her mouth. She didn't interrupt, but the longer I talked, the sharper her gaze became.

"What the hell is wrong with that bitch?"

she yelled.

"Seriously, June, who the hell does she think she is?"

"I've known her for years,"

I said, sighing.

"We were never close, but now suddenly she goes off on me about Aaron!"

"

So you have known her for years in passing, but suddenly she thinks she's the Queen of Versailles? Going off on you about Aaron like you should be grateful he's still in love with you.

"You should end her."

"Jan..."

"No, June. I mean it. She crossed the line. You have every right to make her go. I'm talking full stop—she shouldn't have a single place left in your studio. She needs to feel the consequences for what she did."

"I told Leo,"

I said.

"and he said we need her. Deadline's close." I sighed.

She froze mid-step, turning toward me slowly like a villain in a soap opera.

"Are you serious right now? Who the hell owns this studio?"

"I do, but it's always been more of a family thing. Especially me and Leo. He started with me back when we both had nothing."

January stared at me in a stunned silence that was somehow louder than her yelling. Then she blurted.

"Do you hear yourself? You are the freaking owner! This is your kingdom, babe. You could evict her, repossess her tap shoes, and ban her from buying tights within a hundred-mile radius."

I opened my mouth to argue, but she was already softening—slightly.

"Okay. I get it. You're a sweet, kind soul. It's cute. But there are limits. Boundaries. And in business?"

She tapped her temple.

"Family doesn't exist. She's making a toxic work environment, and that's a cancer that spreads fast. Want me to take her down?"

I shook my head.

"No need. You're right. I just... always try to avoid confrontations. Honestly, what bothered me most was that it made me question myself, and then—"

My voice dropped.

"When I remember how Aaron kept complaining to her, I get angrier."

January's lips curled into a shark-smile.

"Good. Stay angry. Use it and set boundaries with Aaron and the bitch."

She got up.

"I gotta go to work. Tell me you'll be fine."

"I will. Love you."

She made a face.

"Yeah, sure."

She didn't sa.

"love you."

She never does; claims it's cursed. But when she left, the kitchen felt like she'd dropped those words on the table anyway, somewhere between the coffee and the silk.

I rinsed my plate, the clink of ceramic loud in the quiet kitchen, and after a while, replaying her words over and over, I finally called Aaron. I'd promised myself I'd keep it calm, collected and professional and I told him what happened.

"So,"

I said evenly.

"you may want to avoid talking—or complaining—about me and my inability to forgive you to my employees. Okay?"

"

I didn't,"

he said immediately.

"We had drinks with Leo, Mora, and Alice. Alice left early, and I stayed with them. They asked why I was feeling down, and I said it was because you rejected my dinner invitation but I never told her the details of what happened."

"Then how the hell does she know?"

"I don't know—maybe Leo told her. I mean, he was there—"

"When you left me for the one that got away?"

"She is not the one that got away."

"Whatever. I'm going to start looking for another stage manager. Thanks a lot, because I didn't already have enough going on."

"I'm so sorry. I was just venting. I swear I said nothing about you. But..."

"But what?"

"She... did ask me out a few weeks ago. I turned her down. Told her my heart belongs to someone else. Maybe she kept asking Leo or other people and they told her."

"Ugh, I do not need this immature drama right now. I have a big performance, for God's sake. I'm leaving. Bye."

I hung up before he could answer. My mind kept circling the same maddening loop—Aaron's excuses, Mora's smug comments, the fact that I even had to deal with this right now of all weeks. I pulled out my phone again and called Leo.

"Fire Mora,"

I said, not bothering with a hello.

There was a pause, long enough for me to hear the faint background noise of the crew shifting sets, then Leo's voice came through, surprisingly calm.

"You know what? I'm on board. I'm sorry, June. I was thinking about the performance and not your feelings, but you matter more. I'll take care of it."

My shoulders eased slightly, for a beat, neither of us spoke. Then Leo exhaled and said.

"Consider it done."

*******

Once I arrived to the studio, I called everyone for the performance date, going through each detail like clockwork—double-checking schedules, confirming costumes, props, lighting cues. Every note, every movement had to be perfect; there was no room for last-minute chaos. Once the last confirmation pinged through, I exhaled, letting the quiet settle around the studio like a heavy curtain.

The mirrors reflected only me now, stretching and pivoting, my body following the rhythm of the music as if it were translating every buried emotion into motion. Spins, lifts, and falls—all rehearsed, all raw—carried fragments of heartbreak and strength, of anger and grief, stitched together in each movement.

I moved through the choreography alone, letting the echo of my shoes against the polished floor keep time. The space felt sacred, a world contained within four mirrored walls where I could speak the truths I couldn't yet voice out loud.

The music faded, replaced by the faint hum of the air conditioning. I was about to move into the next sequence when the sound of the door opening froze me mid-step. The subtle click of shoes against the hardwood floor carried across the empty studio.

"Aaron."

I kept my tone neutral as he stepped inside, hands tucked in his pockets.

"Hey Junie...I... just wanted to apologize again. About Mora,"

he said, voice careful.

I lifted an eyebrow.

"Thanks for the apology."

My voice stayed even, reserved.

""I swear, June, I was just venting—letting off steam. I didn't go into any detail, I didn't repeat anything personal, I didn't drag your name through the mud. You have every right to be mad—angry even, furious if you want. Take all the time you need to process it, because I know I messed up. But please believe me, no one has any right to say anything bad about you, and I won't let them.

I'm sorry—more sorry than I can put into words. I wish... I wish you could forgive me, not just in some distant future but now, today, so we could start healing. I wish you could look at me the way you used to, with that trust in your eyes that made me feel like I was worth something. I wish I was still your safe place—the one you came to first, the one you didn't hesitate to run to when the world was too much.

And I am so deeply, painfully sorry that I forgot that for a while—forgot what it meant to be that for you, forgot how much it mattered, forgot how easily something precious can slip away if you stop holding on.""

"It wasn't a while, Aaron,"

I said, my voice colder than I intended.

"You lived with her."

His face crumpled for a split second before he caught himself.

"I know. And I'll regret that until the day I die."

"It doesn't matter anymore,"

I said, pulling back.

"I don't want to talk about this."

"I know,"

he murmured.

"And I'll do anything to gain your trust back."

He reached down beside his chair and placed a small box on the table between us.

"I thought... maybe these should be back with you."

I hesitated, then opened it.

Inside was a mess of small, familiar things—pieces of another life. The old silver necklace I used to wear almost every day, one tiny heart charm bent from the time we got caught in the rain and ran laughing down Main Street. A folded note from a trip we'd taken to the coast, where he'd scrawled a ridiculous poem on hotel stationery and slipped it under my door. A tiny sketch—messy pencil lines on torn paper—of a coffee cup and my hands around it. I didn't even remember drawing it.

Beneath them, wrapped carefully in tissue, was the ticket stub from the night we first kissed—creased and faded but still legible, and tucked in the corner was a single seashell from that same trip, the one I'd picked up and said looked like a heart if you turned it just right.

My fingers lingered on each item. I could feel him watching me, not saying a word, as if afraid to break whatever spell the box had cast. When I finally looked up, he wasn't smiling, just sitting there, eyes full of that heavy mix of love and guilt I'd come to recognize too well.

I hadn't even heard him walk up, but suddenly he was there beside me—close enough that I could feel the warmth of him, even without touching.

"I know what I did was awful,"

Aaron began, his voice barely above a whisper.

"But deep down, I never stopped loving you. Not for a single day."

His eyes searched mine, desperate, almost pleading.

"I lost my way and that will always be my biggest regret."

He reached for my hands, gently folding his fingers around mine as if afraid I might shatter.

"Please, June,"

he said, his breath hitching.

"I will never make such a horrible decision again. I will spend the rest of my life making it up to you. Just... one more chance."

I pulled my hands free, the absence of his touch sharp and immediate.

His shoulders sagged, but he kept going, stubborn in his hope.

"One last chance, Junie,"

he said, using the nickname like it might still open a door in me.

"That's all I'm asking. One chance to be the man you used to believe I was."

For a moment, we just stood there, the space between us crowded with everything we hadn't said and everything we couldn't take back.

And I remembered—over these past weeks—how he's been trying in that quiet, stubborn way of his. The day he showed up with the very first pair of worn dance shoes he ever bought for me, the leather scuffed from hours of rehearsals we once thought would never end. How he's brought food for the entire crew more than once, slipping it in without ceremony, as if feeding everyone was just another way to make sure I was taken care of. How he's waited outside for me after every rehearsal, leaning against the stage door until the lights went out, even though he knows I'd walk straight past him to my car and drive to Jan's.

Even the smallest, almost imperceptible things—leaving a battered copy of a poetry book , its spine split in the exact spot of my favorite poem; quietly sliding my preferred tea across the table during a break without saying a word; fixing the broken hook on my costume when he thought no one was watching—each one was a deliberate move, a silent dance meant to draw me back toward him.

They were gestures laced with memory, choreographed to tug at something soft inside me. And yet, I kept myself measured, reserved, civil, polite, but never offering him more than a fleeting glance or a thank-you that felt like the final curtain coming down before he could step closer.

Unfortunately, there was too much pain, too much betrayal for any easy return. The woman who once loved him with her whole, unguarded heart was gone. In her place stood someone changed, tempered, and sharpened by the fire of hurt. She had been refined the way stardust becomes a new world through collapse, pressure, and heat.

She had mourned it all, the love they'd lost, the wedding preparations she had once approached like charting a course for a lifelong voyage. She grieved the home they never built together, the first dances they never shared, the dreams that had burned up on re-entry before ever reaching their destination.

And...and she met wonderful people, steady as planets, bright as comets who reminded her that there was more to explore than the single orbit she had once been trapped in. Her world had grown larger, and she was no longer willing to shrink herself to fit inside the gravity of his regret.

I just told him to leave and went back to dancing, after few minutes or hours, I saw Leo coming in practically beaming.

"Good news! I found someone for the stage manager position. Mora took it surprisingly well, said she'd find a replacement, and a few hours later came back to me with someone she knows. I talked to her; she's really good. Maybe even overqualified."

"Great,"

I said smiling.

"She's here now. Welcome to the crew!"

I turned around, expecting a stranger. But the moment my eyes landed on her, my stomach dropped. I had never stood face-to-face with this woman before, yet I knew her in ways I wished I didn't. I had spent hours comparing; my body to hers, my hair to hers, my eyes to hers. Picking myself apart piece by piece, wondering what she had that I didn't.

"Hi, June,"

she said with an easy smile.

"I'm Selene."