Page 5 of June

It takes me a moment to realize where I am.

This bed isn't mine. The sheets are too crisp. The walls too pale. The scent of lavender and lemon doesn't belong to me. For a split second, I forget. I breathe. I exist.

Then it all crashes back.

The wedding. The calls. The text. The postponement. The ex.

I remember walking out of the apartment—his apartment. Not mine. I didn't even pack properly. Just stuffed a bag and left. I called Jan. January, with her lawyer brain and her house full of granite and silence. She didn't ask questions. Just said.

"Come home,"

in that no-nonsense tone that always makes you feel like things might still be okay even when they clearly aren't. She works constantly. Her house feels like it was decorated by an interior design magazine more than a person. But when I arrived at midnight, shaking, she opened the door in sweatpants and handed me a glass of wine. That's Jan for you. Stern as hell, but pure gold underneath.

Now, in her guest room, I pull the covers over my head and stay still. I wonder how the hell I got from planning centerpieces to crashing in my friend's spare bed, heartbroken and humiliated.

Aaron's messages haven't stopped. He's all over the emotional spectrum—sorry, confused, begging, then angry because .

"just walked away."

Walked away? He postponed our wedding because he caught feelings for his ex, and somehow I'm the one who gave up?

May and December helped Jan cancel everything. I still had to go through the motions—contact vendors, respond to messages from extended family, listen to voice notes full of sympathy that made my skin crawl. Every call felt like scraping off a layer of my dignity.

But the hardest call came next.

Dad.

He always calls in the mornings when he's up early working on his motorcycle. I almost let it go to voicemail, but guilt got me.

"What happened, Junebug?" he asked.

I told him everything. He listened. Didn't interrupt once. When I finally ran out of words, he said.

"Come home to me."

"I can't. I have work. My students need me. I need something normal right now."

"Then I'm coming."

"No, Dad. Please. Not yet. It's Aaron's place. I'm just staying at Jan's until I figure it out."

He went quiet, and for a second I thought the call had dropped.

Then he said.

"You will always be my princess. I love you, and you will get through this. You're not alone."

I cried into my pillow after I hung up. And then my phone rang again. Her name flashed across the screen. Aaron's grandma.

I stared at it, unsure. But I answered.

"June,"

she said, voice sharp and full of fire.

"You listen to me, sweetheart."

"Hi, Grandma Ellie."

"That stupid grandson of mine is going to regret this until he's old and senile, and even then I'll be there to remind him what a damn fool he was."

I blinked. Then laughed—too hard, too suddenly—and it turned into a sob.

"He's got the emotional intelligence of a sock sometimes,"

she continued.

"I don't know what the hell he's thinking, but I do know this: you are the best thing that's ever happened to him. And if he's too blind to see that, then good riddance. He can date nostalgia while you go on and live your beautiful, talented life."

"Grandma Ellie..."

"Don't 'Grandma Ellie' me. I've always said you were too good for him. I just didn't think he'd be this dumb. But baby, you are gold. He is the loss. You are the treasure."

She kept going. Called him an idiot five different ways. Somewhere betwee.

"emotionally stunted turtle"

an.

"hopeless idiot with attachment issues,"

I started laughing again. Really laughing.

When we finally hung up, I sat up in bed and swung my legs to the floor.

On the nightstand was a smoothie and a bright yellow sticky note in Jan's aggressive block letters:

YOU'RE NOT STAYING HERE FOREVER. START LOOKING. YOU NEED A PLACE + A NEW CHAPTER. ?? I smiled. Then drank the smoothie.

By noon, I was at the studio.

The familiar smell of rosin and wood settled my nerves a bit. My students—bright-eyed, chatty teens who still think love is simple—brought a strange comfort. I led warmups, corrected posture, focused on the music. I didn't mention anything. Just danced. Teaching felt like a lifeline. After class, I grabbed my tote and slipped into my coat, heading toward the exit. I pushed open the studio doors, ready to breathe in some fresh air—and there he was.

Aaron.

Standing by his car like something out of a memory, hair tousled, eyes red-rimmed, hands shoved into his jacket pockets. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. My heart stuttered.

He looked up. Saw me and didn't move.

Neither did I.