Chapter 26
Gwen had been dreading this day since the email landed in her inbox. The subject line alone—“Parent-Teacher Meeting Confirmation: Gwendolyne Stacy”—had made her stomach sink.
She stood outside the conference room, backpack slung over one shoulder, arms crossed tight. Inside, the voices of her parents and her physics teacher drifted through the door, muffled but sharp. Her mom’s tone was clipped, business-like. Her dad’s was more strained—half disappointment, half defense.
“She’s distracted, Mr. and Mrs. Stacy. Talented, yes, but unfocused lately. Her last two assignments were late.”
Gwen stared hard at the floor tiles. She hated how her cheeks were burning. She hated how it felt like everyone walking past was glancing at her like they knew. Like her shortcomings were stamped across her forehead.
And of course, because the universe loved irony, Miles Morales chose that exact moment to walk around the corner.
“Hey,” he said, a bit breathless, holding a coffee in one hand and what looked like a snack bar in the other. “Didn’t know there were parent-teacher things today.”
Gwen froze. “Yeah. Surprise,” she said, voice tight with fake cheer.
Miles tilted his head. “You okay?”
She turned away, brushing a hand through her hair to hide the way her throat felt like it was closing up. “Peachy. Just your average academic intervention.”
Miles blinked. “Gwen…”
“Seriously,” she cut in, forcing a smile, “no big deal.”
But Miles didn’t look convinced. He glanced toward the conference room door and back at her, his eyebrows pinched. Then, softer, he asked, “You want me to wait with you? Or walk with you after?”
The door opened before she could answer. Her mom stepped out first, perfectly composed in heels and a dark coat, with her phone already in hand.
“Gwendolyne,” she said, not unkind, but with the same polished sharpness she used at formal dinners. “We’ll talk more later. We’re not done.”
Her dad gave Gwen a quiet pat on the shoulder, but didn’t meet her eyes.
And just like that, they were gone. Gwen stood frozen for a second, then let out a breath so shaky it nearly made her laugh.
Miles was still standing there.
“You don’t have to say anything,” she mumbled.
“I wasn’t going to.” He handed her the lemon tea he was holding. “But I thought you could probably use this.”
She took it with a blink. “Thanks.”
They started walking, quiet at first, Gwen’s head still full of her mom’s words. But the tea was warm, and Miles didn’t push. Eventually, she glanced over at him.
“You’re annoying, you know that?”
He smirked. “You’re welcome.”
The rehearsal room echoed with the soft thud of pointe shoes and the sharp clap of the instructor’s hands. Gwen stood in front of the mirror, breath uneven, arms poised, trying not to crumble under the weight of it all.
She hadn’t even auditioned for Odette. She'd aimed for a minor ensemble role—something manageable. Something she could blend into without it consuming her life.
But no. The list had gone up that morning, and her name was inked at the very top:
Gwendolyne Stacy – Odette/Odile (Double Cast)
Double cast. Lead role. Black and White Swan. A hundred rehearsals. A thousand eyes. And already a million things on her mind.
Her teacher, Madame Delphine, clapped again sharply. “No, no, Gwen. Shoulders down—Odette is delicate, not hunched like she’s bracing for a car crash.”
Gwen tried to adjust, blinking rapidly to stop the burn behind her eyes.
Her phone buzzed in her bag across the room. Probably a text from Amaya or Camila checking in. Or maybe another email from her mom. Your focus should be on school. We need to see improvement by next month. Right.
Delphine sighed, stepping closer. “You have the talent. But your head is somewhere else, yes?”
Gwen nodded, helplessly.
“I didn’t ask if you wanted the role,” the teacher added, softer this time. “I gave it to you because you could handle it. You want to tell me that was a mistake?”
Gwen looked at her reflection—flushed cheeks, eyes too tired, posture too tight. She wanted to say yes. She wanted to hand the role back, run out the door, and breathe.
But instead, she just whispered, “No, ma’am.”
Delphine gave a curt nod. “Then again. From the top.”
As the music started again, Gwen lifted her arms, heart racing faster than her steps.
Physics was piling up. Her mom was ready to yank her back home. She hadn’t blogged in days. She still hadn’t told Miles about the message her mom left.
And she had a ballet solo to master by Friday night.
She felt like a string pulled taut at every end.
And it was starting to fray.
The cafeteria buzzed with midday chatter, clinking trays, and the low hum of music from someone’s speaker in the corner. Gwen spotted him instantly—Miles, waiting at their usual table, waving her over with that easy smile that always made her shoulders drop an inch.
“Yo, you’re late,” he teased, pushing her tray toward her as she sat.
“Blame Madame Delphine,” Gwen muttered, flopping into her seat with a huff. “She’s got me doing pirouettes until I grow wings and fly.”
Miles chuckled. “You’d look majestic with wings. Swan vibes.”
She laughed, rolling her eyes. “Do not feed into it.”
Lunch was easy. Laughing over Ganke’s newest failed cooking experiment, Gwen stealing one of Miles’ plantain chips, him pretending to be offended. For a moment, it was like none of it existed—school, ballet, pressure, expectations. She smiled for real. Ate for real. Even leaned into him a little when he made a stupid pun about her being balletic-ally unbalanced.
But then… he tilted his head. His smile softened. “Hey,” he said, quiet enough that it cut through the noise, “You okay?”
She blinked, chopsticks paused halfway to her mouth. “What?”
“You’ve been laughing,” he said, “But your eyes haven’t been.”
That’s all it took.
Tears stung her eyes so fast it startled even her. She dropped her chopsticks. Tried to look away. “Miles, I—no, I’m fine, I swear—”
“Gwen.” His voice was low, steady. He didn’t reach for her. Just waited.
And she broke.
“I’m not fine,” she whispered. “I’m so not fine.”
The dam burst. She told him about the role she didn’t ask for. About the pressure from her parents. The message that if she didn’t get her grades up, she’d have to move back home. The late nights and early mornings and feeling like she was unraveling.
Miles didn’t interrupt. He just listened, his brows knit tight, like every word she said mattered.
“I feel like I’m being stretched so thin I could just—snap,” she finished, voice cracking. “And I don’t want you to think I’m being dramatic, it’s just—”
“You’re not,” he said immediately. “You’re not being dramatic. You’re being honest.”
She sniffed, wiping her face. “Sorry I’m crying over cafeteria food.”
“Nah, you’re crying with cafeteria food. Big difference.”
She laughed, even as her nose ran.
Then he nudged his tray toward her again. “Here. Eat some more. You need fuel for all those pirouettes.”
She sniffled. “You really are the worst with timing.”
“Yet somehow, you still showed up for lunch with me.”
Her voice cracked through a smile. “Yeah. I did.”
And in that moment, even with the noise of the world pressing in, Gwen felt like she could finally breathe.
It was almost midnight when Gwen stepped onto the dorm rooftop again.
The city glittered around her, distant and loud and alive—but her own little corner was quiet. The wind tugged her ponytail loose. Her eyes felt dry and puffy from the earlier crying, but her chest felt lighter too. Like letting someone see her cracked edges had let some pressure out.
She sat down on the ledge. Let her legs dangle.
And that’s when she saw it.
A small paper bag.
Just sitting there, like it had appeared from nowhere. A familiar sticky note fluttered against it, secured with a dab of tape.
"Heard you had a rough day. Trust me Gwen, superheroes get those too.
This isn’t much, but it helped me once. – S"
Gwen blinked. Slowly reached for the bag.
Inside: A small, still-warm container of sweet corn soup from her favorite hole-in-the-wall deli. Two fortune cookies. And a folded origami spider, painted lilac and gold.
She smiled. Shook her head. “You nerd,” she whispered to the night.
The fortune cookie crinkled as she cracked it open.
“Even webs need anchors.”
She didn’t even notice the tears this time. Just sat with the soup warming her fingers, staring at the little spider in her palm. And for the first time that day, she didn’t feel like she was drowning.
She felt… held.