Then he gently asked, “Hmm, are you tired today?”

They’re such a perfect couple. They’re really meant to be, and I, from the very beginning, have always been the outsider.

I opened my laptop and started booking my flight. My aunt had already taken care of everything, and in three days, I’d be on my way.

Once everything was packed up, I stood in the center of the rehearsal room, and for the last time, I performed that dance they all thought I plagiarized.

No music, just me and my reflection in the mirror.

I moved slowly through each step like I was pouring all the sweet, sour, and bitter moments of these years into every movement.

After finishing the final step, I took a deep bow. That bow wasn’t just for the past—it was a goodbye and a hope for what’s next.

With less than a week before I left, I started sorting through the things I needed to sell.

To make some extra cash, I applied for a part-time teaching gig at a nearby ballet dance academy three months ago.

“Your fundamentals are awesome,” the instructor said after watching me demonstrate. “When can you start teaching?”

“Anytime,” I told her.

So, just like that, I started my nine-to-five teaching schedule. Mostly basic classes, with kids and teens as my students.

Watching them practice so earnestly, I saw a glimpse of my younger self.

Sometimes, I’d come across kids who truly loved dancing. The pure passion in their eyes reminded me of how I’d felt when I first started dancing—so simple, so pure, untainted by anything else.

After the academy closed in the evenings, I’d stay behind to practice by myself. I’d turn off the main lights and leave only the spotlight on. In that soft glow, I’d choreograph a new routine.

It was a dance about farewells. No fancy moves, just the most basic steps. But every step was filled with my emotions, a reflection of everything I’d been through over the years.

Sometimes, I practiced until late into the night. The entire building would be silent, with only the sound of music and my footsteps echoing in the empty studio.

One night, though, I ran into Ulysses at the convenience store downstairs from the studio.

He was standing by the door, looking tired. “Still practicing this late?” he asked.

I stopped and walked over to wipe the sweat off my face. “Yeah, I’m about to head out.”

“Go home. It’s late, and it’s not safe,” he said.

I kept my head down. “You don’t need to worry about me.”

He was quiet for a moment. “I haven’t seen you at home lately.”

“I got a job outside,” I replied.

“Money’s tight?” he asked.

I looked up and met his concerned gaze, feeling a sudden wave of bitterness in my chest. “No, I just want to make a bit more.”

He pulled out his wallet. “If you need anything, I can—”

“No, it’s fine,” I interrupted. “I can handle it myself.”

After that, I grabbed my bag and prepared to leave. As I walked past him, he suddenly said, “I’m sorry.”

I paused, my steps faltering. “Why are you apologizing?”

“About the competition…” he started.

“You don’t have to say anything,” I cut him off, forcing a bitter smile. “It’s all in the past now.”

He seemed like he wanted to say more, but his phone rang. It was Ginger calling. I took that chance to leave quickly, afraid that if I stayed a second longer, I wouldn’t be able to control my emotions.

Back home, I continued sorting through the things I needed to sell.

When I opened one of the boxes, I froze. Inside were the gifts Ulysses had given me over the years: the ballet shoes for my 14th birthday, the necklace for my 16th, the watch for my 17th…

Each one carried a special memory. I remembered the look on his face when he gave me these gifts. I remembered every word he’d said.

Now, all of it—those things and those memories—is going to be buried by me.

Over the years, Ulysses gave me so much. Designer bags, limited-edition sneakers, luxury watches—each one expensive. I listed them all on a secondhand marketplace, slashing the prices by half.

“They’re useless to me now,” I told my reflection, trying to sound convincing. “It’s not like I’ll ever get gifts like these again anyway.”

Soon, a buyer started reaching out. They wanted to know why I was selling them so cheaply. I just said I needed the money. But honestly, I just wanted that stuff gone. It felt like if I got rid of the things, I could get rid of the feelings, too—the ones I shouldn’t have had in the first place.

Late that night, I heard a car engine outside.

When I looked out the window, there they were—Ulysses and Ginger coming home together. They were talking and laughing. It was the kind of warmth that could shatter you if you let it.

I shut the curtains, shoved on my headphones, and went back to practicing my farewell ballet dance. The music drowned out their voices—and muffled the sound of me crying.

When I couldn’t move anymore, I lay flat on the floor, staring up at the ceiling. Just a week left before I leave. I had to perfect this dance. It’s my last one here, my way of closing the chapter.

My phone buzzed—it was one of the buyers asking about the stuff I listed. I replied to each message and set up the transactions for tomorrow. Once all of that’s done, I’ll be completely free of it all.

Or at least that’s what I kept telling myself.

Another late night found me in front of the rehearsal room mirror, going over the moves again and again. My clothes were soaked through with sweat, but I didn’t want to stop.

Stopping meant letting it all hit me—the pain, the anger, the sadness. Instead, I poured everything into the dance. Let the music carry it all away.

That’s how I’m saying goodbye. One last dance to leave behind this state, this villa, and the man I loved for so many years.

And he’ll never know how much of my words are behind this dance.

The day before I was set to leave was my 18th birthday.

Every other year, Ulysses would take the day off to celebrate with me.

We’d go to the amusement park, eat way too much ice cream, and make wishes under the night sky.

But this year? Different story.

When I woke up, I got a text from him.

[Gotta take Ginger to try on wedding dresses today. We’ll celebrate your birthday another time. Sorry.]

I stared at the message until my eyes started to sting.

I should’ve seen it coming. Their wedding’s next month, and of course, they’re busy.

I went downstairs, and the dining table was empty.

Usually, by this time, he’d have breakfast ready for me. Smiley-face eggs, little bear-shaped toast—my favorite.

But today, I poured myself a glass of milk and bit into some plain bread.

Then the housekeeper walked up with a cake box in her hands. “Miss, Madam had this ordered for you.”

I looked at the fancy box and let out a laugh. So, someone in this villa still remembered my birthday.

Inside was a simple cream cake. On top, in chocolate, it said: [Happy 18th Birthday!]

I sat at the table, staring at it.

Eighteen. Legally an adult. But I’d never felt more fragile in my life.

My phone buzzed again. It was a text from Aunt Petunia.

[Happy birthday, sweetie. Ready to leave?]

I sent back a smiley face and started packing.

I’d already made my decision. No point lingering any longer.