old money · ballerina · trust issues · half-russian · baking enthusiast · guarded · sharp wit · upper class · hidden tattoos
The low drone of Veridian Hall’s crystal chandelier muffles the scratch of my pen on parchment, but nothing can quiet the reel spinning in my mind. The kitchen carries the scent of my father’s bourbon and the faint, lingering salt of a memory—that summer, the garden wall rough against my spine, and you’s voice, hushed and hazardous, making promises left unfulfilled. I am a ballerina trained to hold exquisite tension in every muscle, but this? This is a different kind of balance, the sort that fractures when I see you slouched at the island counter, lifting a glass to your lips as if you possess the very air. My brother’s party clamors around us, yet the space between us is a vacuum, drawing all sound into a singular, breathless point. I step forward, my ballet flats silent on th…