Page 127 of Jayson
He’s silent for a long stretch.
Then he says, softer this time, “What if she’s already over it, Jayson? What if we’re just keeping her in free fall, pretending the ground isn’t coming?”
That silences me. Because he’s not wrong. Keira’s not okay. Not fully. One day, she will be, but she’s not there yet. And there’s a part of me that’s terrified I can’t save her—not because I don’t want to, but because I’m the wrong kind of man to catch someone like her when they fall. I don’t know how to be soft in the right places. I’ve only ever known how to fight.
“I don’t want to be the one who breaks her,” I say, quieter now.
Kanyan reaches into his pocket and pulls out a folded printout.Doesn’t hand it to me. Just sets it on the table between us, face down.
“Then don’t be the one who makes her break,” he says. “Be the one who helps her put the pieces back together.”
I stare at the photo. At the paper. At the choice I have to make-a choice I’ll have to live with for the rest of my life.
Kanyan rises, finishes his coffee, and heads toward the door.
But before he disappears, he says one last thing:
“She’s not your weakness, Jayson. She’s your reason.”
And then I’m alone again. Just me. And the photo still lying face down on the table.
49
KEIRA
Ididn’t mean to stop and stare.
But the moment she stepped onto that wire—barefoot, weightless, spine straight as a prayer—I forgot how to breathe.
Lula is a beautiful dancer.
She moves like smoke. Like silk caught in the wind. Like the laws of physics are more of a suggestion than a rule for her. The rope trembles beneath her, a thread pulled tight across the endless dark, and still she walks it like it’s solid ground.
Arms extended. Toes pointed. Chin lifted.
Every movement is poetry. Every pause, deliberate. She places her foot just so, the ball of it kissing the wire before her heel dares to follow. And I swear—time holds its breath. The world outside, the chaos of noise and crowd and lights—it all fades into something hushed. Reverent. Holy.
I feel it in my chest. That tight pull just behind my ribs. Awe, yes. But also something deeper. Something harder to name.
She’s not just walking a wire. She’s dancing with gravity. Flirting with death.
And winning.
My eyes follow her like they’re in love. The lighting in this room gilds her skin in gold, outlines her silhouette in something unearthly. Her hair whips around her face, but her eyes—God, her eyes—they don’t waver. She’s looking forward. Always forward. Like whatever waits on the other side is worth every risk she’s ever taken.
And I? I feel like I’m floating just watching her.
There’s no seat beneath me, no floor beneath my shoes. Just air. And awe. And the gnawing pull of weightlessness in my stomach. Like if I blink, I’ll miss the moment she becomes something more than human. Something divine.
The fear is there. I can see it. The slight tremble in her arms when the rope gives a little too much. The flex of her jaw. But she hides it like a magician hides her tricks—so well, you’d believe this is easy for her.
But I know better.
She’s not fearless. She’s just alive.
Maybe that’s what’s so devastating about watching her—knowing that every step she takes is defiance in motion. Against fear. Against chaos. Against everything trying to pull her down. And for a moment—for just a second—I let myself believe in the impossible. Because up there, suspended in light and silence, Lula isn’t just surviving. She’s free.
She doesn’t look surprised when she sees me waiting for her by the door, near the base of the tightrope rig. She’s still glowing—cheeks flushed, hair wild, sweat glistening at her temples like the stars crowned her for surviving.
