Chapter 27
The studio lights were dimmed, only the overhead bar lights glowing faintly like a row of stars above Gwen’s head. The city outside was a quiet hum, distant sirens and late-night horns muffled by the high windows. Alone, Gwen stood at the center of the polished floor, her reflection long and slender in the wall of mirrors.
She pressed play on her phone. A soft orchestral swell filled the room. Nothing too grand—just something with enough emotion to sink into. She closed her eyes, inhaled once, and moved.
She didn’t think about school. Or her parents. Or the pressure wrapped around her ribs like barbed wire. Not even about Miles, though a little smile tugged at her lips as she turned on pointe. She just… danced.
Her movements weren’t flawless, not yet—but they were hers. Her arms curved with intent, her footing grounded but graceful. She was remembering the joy of it—the part that was just music and muscle, not perfection or pressure. She caught her reflection mid-spin and didn’t flinch this time. Didn’t frown.
By the end of the routine, her chest was heaving, strands of blonde hair sticking to her face, but her eyes were bright. For the first time in weeks, she felt like she wasn’t losing. Like maybe, if she practiced like this every night, she’d get there. Maybe even make the role her own.
She slumped onto the floor with a breathless laugh, lying flat on the wood, sweat cooling on her skin.
"Okay. I can do this."
And for once, she almost believed it.
The library was quiet, the kind of quiet that made Gwen fidget with her pen cap more than usual. She sat across from Miles at a far-back corner table, surrounded by high shelves and warm sunlight trickling in through dusty windows.
Miles tapped her notebook gently with the back of his pencil.
“Alright, what’s the difference between velocity and acceleration again?”
Gwen wrinkled her nose. “Velocity is how fast you’re going… and acceleration is… how fast the speed is changing?”
Miles gave her a teasing look but nodded. “Close. More like how quickly you gain speed. But you’re getting there.”
She rolled her eyes, but her grin betrayed her pride. Her notebook was full of neat scribbles, highlighter marks, and side doodles of spider webs she wasn’t going to admit were his fault.
“I think your brain might actually be contagious. I understood that without Googling it this time.”
Miles smirked. “Told you. All you needed was a little Miles Morales charm.”
She laughed, resting her chin in her hand. “You’re more useful than any textbook.”
“Put that in a review. Five stars.”
When she got her quiz back the next day, the bold 85% circled in red felt like winning a mini lottery. She didn't shout about it or wave it around—just quietly slipped it into her folder with a tiny, satisfied smile.
Later, she sent a blurry photo of it to Miles with the caption:
“You win, Morales.”
He replied with a sticker of a gold trophy. Then another text:
“Celebratory boba?”
Gwen:
“Only if you let me pay this time.”
Miles:
“Blasphemy.”
Gwen checked her phone again.
6:05 PM.
She looked up and down the sidewalk, watching the little groups of friends pass by with drinks in hand, some laughing loudly, others swiping through their phones. The sky had that soft pink glow of sunset, clouds stretched like pulled cotton candy, and it smelled faintly of syrup and city smoke.
She checked again.
6:09 PM.
He wasn’t usually late. Not even by five minutes. Her lips tightened. It wasn’t anger. Just… that little flicker of uncertainty she hated feeling.
She ordered her drink anyway—taro with black pearls, extra ice—and sat outside on the curb, sipping slowly. The cup felt cold in her hand, a weird contrast to the warm breeze on her face.
Somewhere not too far, sirens echoed. Then a flash of red-blue light down the avenue.
She sighed. “Of course.”
It wasn’t hard to piece it together.
His chest heaved as he crouched on a ledge, scanning the streets. The mugger was long gone, webbed up nicely for the cops, but the detour had cost him time. Too much of it.
He tugged off his mask and ran a hand through his curls, muttering,
“She’s gonna be mad…”
But worse than that—disappointed.
His phone buzzed. A photo from Gwen. It was of her drink, nearly finished.
Caption:
“Don’t worry. I saved you the last pearl. (JK I didn’t.)”
He smiled. Then frowned. Then sighed.
Miles:
“I’m so sorry, G.”
She was lying on her bed when her phone buzzed again.
Text from Miles:
“Can I make it up to you? Tomorrow? Morning run? I’ll bring croissants.”
Gwen stared at it for a second.
Then typed:
“Only if it’s chocolate filled.”
Miles:
“Like I’d bring anything else.”
She turned the phone over on her chest and stared at the ceiling. Still smiling.
Just… a little sad.
The piano hummed low and steady, each note rippling through the wooden floor like soft thunder. Gwen stood at the center of the rehearsal space, her breath slow, her arms curved just right.
Sweat beaded along her hairline, but her focus didn’t waver.
She moved.
The music swelled.
Her body, once a step behind, now chased every beat with precision. Her leaps were sharper, her landings quieter. She spun with purpose, not panic. The choreography—the one she used to mumble curses at in the mirror—unfolded through her like muscle memory stitched with confidence.
When she ended, one leg extended, arms held like wings, breath steady—
There was silence.
Then scattered clapping. Surprised. A few startled gasps.
Camila was frozen near the mirror, holding her water bottle mid-sip. “Okay, Gwen! What the hell was that?!”
Laughter broke out, light and easy.
Her dance Instructor—Ms. Lemaire tilted her head, adjusting her glasses.
“You’ve been practicing,” she said softly, but with warmth.
One of her classmates whispered to another, “She totally nailed that turn sequence.”
Gwen stood there, stunned. Her cheeks flushed—not from the dance, but from the praise. The genuine kind. She wasn't the new girl flailing behind anymore. She wasn’t the backup for the lead.
She belonged.
And for the first time in days, her smile didn’t feel like something she had to remember to wear.