Page 10 of The Last Pirouette
The air crackled with unspoken tension. Mila shifted uncomfortably on the bed, her eyes searching Harper’s face.
“I just… I thought you’d be happy for me,” Mila said, her voice tinged with hurt.
Harper scoffed. “Happy? Must be nice. To be able to dance.”
The words were laced with bitterness, a subtle accusation that hung heavy in the air. It was a low blow, a deliberate attempt to wound. And it worked.
Mila flinched, her eyes narrowing. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing,” Harper said, turning away, refusing to meet Mila’s gaze. “Just… nothing.”
But it was a lie. It meant everything. It meant that Harper was drowning in her own grief, that she couldn’t bear to see her best friend living the life she had been denied. It meant that she was jealous, resentful, and ashamed of her own weakness.
Mila’s voice rose, a defensive edge creeping into her tone. “So, I’m supposed to apologize for getting the part? Should I have turned it down just so you wouldn’t feel bad?”
“I didn’t say that,” Harper said, her voice cold.
“You didn’t have to,” Mila retorted. “You’re making it pretty clear.”
The argument escalated quickly, fueled by unspoken resentments and years of shared history. Mila accused Harper of being self-centered and bitter, of only caring about herself and her own problems. Harper accused Mila of being insensitive and thoughtless, of rubbing her success in Harper’s face.
Neither of them were willing to back down, to offer the other the grace and understanding they both desperately needed.
“You know what, Harper?” Mila said, her voice trembling with anger. “I came here to share something with you, to celebrate with my best friend. But all you can do is be jealous and mean. I’m done.”
Mila stood up abruptly, grabbing her purse and heading for the door.
“Fine,” Harper said, her voice barely a whisper. “Go.”
Mila paused at the doorway, her back to Harper. “I really thought you’d be different,” she said, her voice choked with emotion. “I thought you’d be stronger than this.”
Then, she was gone, leaving Harper alone in the suffocating silence of her room.
The vibrant energy Mila had brought with her had vanished, leaving a vacuum. The air felt heavy and stale, thick with unspoken words and bitter regrets.
Harper’s eyes landed on the untouched bag of snacks on the nightstand. She reached out and picked it up, the crinkling paper a sharp, intrusive sound in the quiet room. She stared at the bag for a long moment, then tossed it onto the floor, a wave of disgust washing over her.
Her gaze drifted to a framed photo on her dresser. It was a picture of her and Mila in costume after a previous performance, their faces flushed with excitement, their smiles radiant and victorious. They were younger then, carefree and full of hope. The future stretched out before them, limitless and bright.
Now, the image was a source of profound pain. It was a reminder of everything she had lost, of the dreams that had been shattered, of the friendship that was now fractured.
Harper felt a tear trickle down her cheek, then another, and another. Soon, she was sobbing uncontrollably, her body wracked with grief and regret. She was alone, utterly and completely alone, trapped in the suffocating confines of her own broken body and broken heart.
Chapter 7
The oppressive heat and echoing squeak of sneakers in the school gymnasium felt alien to Harper. Prodded by her mother's misguided attempts at 'normalcy,' she was perched awkwardly on the bleachers during a packed basketball game. Every cheer and burst of athletic energy was a grating reminder of what she'd lost. She felt like a ghost haunting her own life, her crutches a clumsy, metallic anchor in a sea of fluid motion and effortless youth.
The air hung thick and heavy, a humid blanket clinging to her skin. The smell of popcorn and stale sweat mingled in a nauseating concoction. Harper shifted on the hard wooden bench, the crutches digging into her side. Each bounce of the basketball, each squeal of sneakers on the polished floor, vibrated through her injured leg, a dull, persistent throb.
She scanned the crowd, a sea of familiar faces blurred into a single, enthusiastic mass. Mila was somewhere in the throng, probably laughing and cheering with the rest of the dance team. Harper had declined her invitation to sit with them, not wanting to dampen their spirits with her own cloud of bitterness.
The truth was, she didn't want to be here at all. But her mother had insisted, her voice laced with a fragile hope that pierced Harper's usual defenses. "You can't just shut yourself away, sweetie. You need to be around people, to see...to see that life goes on."
Harper knew her mother meant well. But life didn't justgo on. It barreled forward, leaving her stranded on the sidelines, a spectator in a game she used to dominate.
The first half ended with a buzzer, releasing a tidal wave of students towards the concession stands. Harper sighed, bracing herself for the inevitable crush. Navigating the crowded bleachers was a challenge even on two healthy legs. Now, it felt like climbing Mount Everest.
She gripped her crutches tighter, preparing to descend. The steps were steep and narrow, and the sheer number of bodies surging past was overwhelming. People jostled past, oblivious to her struggle, their conversations and laughter creating a cacophony of noise. She took a tentative step, her crutches slipping slightly on the worn wood. A jolt of pain shot through her leg, and she gasped, her knuckles white on the handles of the crutches.
