The parade square is too open. Too exposed. I don't usually come here.
There's nowhere to hide. No mirrors to control. No music to follow. Just space—and the echo of everything you'd rather not hear.
I shouldn't have agreed to meet them here but I did because when they call, I show up. They're already waiting. Of course they are.
My mother stands perfectly poised, posture untouched by time, by age, by anything that might suggest weakness. My father beside her—silent, composed, distant as always.
I stop a few steps away.
"Mother. Father."
No greeting in return.
Just—
"You lost the lead role?" my mother starts. Her voice is calm. Too calm. Not a mother, but a judge.
I lower my gaze.
"Mother, I—"
A sharp stinging slap across my cheek. I bit my inner cheek, hands into balled fists.
"I expected highly of you, Vera."
"This was not given to you," she continues. "It was earned. Maintained. Protected." Every word lands like it's been sharpened beforehand.
"I know," I say quietly.
"Do you?"
Silence. I don't answer because anything I say will be wrong.
"You've grown careless," she adds. "Distracted."
"I haven't—"
"Then explain it."
I can't.
Not in a way she'll accept. Not in a way that sounds like anything but failure. "I'm fixing it," I say instead. "You should never have needed to." she stated firmly.
That—
that lands deeper than anything else.
Beside her, my father exhales softly. Not disapproving. Not supportive. Just existing there as if all of this didn't matter. In fact, to him? It doesn't.
"I'll get the role back," I say, forcing the words out evenly. "This is temporary."
My mother studies me. Cold. Unmoved.
"You don't lose roles, Vera," she says. "You don't give people reasons to replace you."
My fingers curl slightly at my sides.
"I didn't give—"
"You did."
The finality in her voice leaves no room for argument. "I trusted you to maintain a standard," she continues. "Not fall beneath it." There's that word again.
Fall.
"I'm handling it," I say.
"You will," she replies. "Because you don't bring shame to this family."
Silence follows. Heavy. Unavoidable.
She turns first.
Clean. Decisive. Final.
My father lingers for half a second longer—just enough that I almost think—No. He follows her without a word.
I don't move. Not immediately. Not when they leave. Not when the space around me empties. The concrete wall behind me is cold. I lean against it anyway.
Then slowly—
I slide down.
Controlled. Even now. Even here.
My knees pull in close, arms wrapping around them before I can stop myself.
Tighter.
Smaller.
Contained.
I breathe in.
Out.
Again.
It doesn't help.
Academics.
Ballet.
Expectations.
Standards.
Everything presses in at once—too much, too fast, too loud. Until there's completely no space to think.
No space to fix it.
No space to—
My breath catches.
Sharp.
Unsteady.
I press my forehead lightly against my arms, closing my eyes. This is temporary. It has to be. I can fix this. I always fix things. A quiet sound escapes before I can stop it.
Barely there.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Just—
real.
I inhale again, slower this time.
Steadier.
Trying to pull everything back into place.
Control.
I need control.
"You're early." The voice cuts through the silence. Julian.
My head lifts. He's a few steps away, just at the edge of the walkway—like he wasn't meant to be seen. Like he heard enough. Not everything but enough.
I straighten slightly and wiped the tears under my eye quickly before anything can linger.
"It's not time yet," I say, my voice is steady.
It always is.
He doesn't move closer immediately. Just watches.
"You've been here a while," he says. It's not a question. "I like quiet places." A lie. A bad one. His gaze shifts briefly—to the direction my parents left. Then back to me.
"They don't sound like they accept excuses," he says. My chest tightens. "They don't." I answer. "You didn't argue," he adds. "I didn't need to." I say. "You had things to say." he points out. "I always do." I reply.
"Then why didn't you?"
I hold his gaze.
Because it wouldn't matter.
Because I'd lose anyway.
Because—
"They expect results," I say instead. He studies me for a second longer. "You're shaking." he says.
I still. "I'm not." I lied. "You are." he called me out. My fingers tighten slightly around my sleeves. "Then I'll stop." I said. "It doesn't work like that." he said.
"It does for me."
A pause.
"No," he says quietly. "It doesn't." Something in my chest tightens again. Sharper this time.
"You don't know anything about this," I say. "I know pressure," he replies. "It's not the same." I argued. "No," he agrees. "But it feels the same."
That—
that stops me.
Silence settles again but it's different now.
Less suffocating.
More... aware.
"I'll fix it," I say, more to myself than to him. "You keep saying that." he said. Frustrating. "Because it's true." he said. "Or because you need it to be." he added.
My jaw tightens.
"It is true."
"Then prove it," he says. I look at him. There's no mockery. No doubt.
Just—expectation.
And somehow—that feels heavier than everything my mother said. "...We're starting early," I say, pushing myself up. My legs feel steadier than they should.
Controlled. Always controlled.
He watches me for a moment longer. Then nods once. "Fine." he agrees.
As we walk back toward the library—I don't look back. I don't think about the conversation. I don't let it settle.
Because if I do—I might not be able to stand like this again.
And I don't have the luxury of falling.