Lia
I know I’m not supposed to be out here. It’s after ten, and the air’s cold enough to sting the tips of my fingers even with my sleeves pulled over them. The neighborhood is quiet—eerily so. No wind, no cars, just the faint rustle of trees behind the fence and the whisper of pavement under my shoes. I don’t even know why I left the house.
Maybe I just needed to breathe. Or maybe I’m running—from the day, from rehearsal, from the silence sitting too loud in my room.
Don’t think about him.
Don’t think about the stage.
But of course, I do. I keep to the sidewalk, hoodie zipped to my chin, arms crossed as I walk the length of the block and back again. It’s peaceful out here, but the peace doesn’t reach my chest. Something tingles along my spine, a flicker of instinct more than sound.
