The theatre was silent, steeped in the weight of memory. A single spotlight cast its glow upon the centre of the stage, where Isabelle stood with arms poised, breath caught in her throat. Her tutu shimmered like frost, fragile and cold, mirroring the stillness in her soul.
She danced.
Not for applause, nor for fame. That had died the day the letter came—Julien Delacourt, killed in service, no remains recovered. Her father never spoke of it. Never mentioned the way he’d threatened the boy she loved. Never apologised.
Now, she danced for the ache inside her. Her movements were fluid, yet hollow. Every spin was a memory of his laughter, every leap a scream she never let out. The orchestra swelled, but it could not reach her. She twirled faster, arms raised, hair loose, as though she could outrun the pain.
And then, the music slowed. Her breath faltered. One final step. One final breath.
She turned to leave the stage. To disappear from the spotlight one last time. But in the wings, standing still, was a man.
A soldier.
Her heart surged—recognition before reason.
“Julien?” she breathed.
He stepped forward, but there was no sound to his feet. No weight to his shadow. His uniform bore no dirt, no tear—only a faint shimmer that caught the light in impossible ways. His eyes were just as she remembered them: soft, full of love, and something otherworldly.
He said nothing. Just smiled, and bowed his head in reverence.
Tears welled in her eyes as he opened his arms, and in a final motion, she ran into them—into air, into memory, into peace.
The curtain fell
And with it, so did she. They found her there, collapsed like a fallen petal on the stage, a peaceful smile on her face, never to dance again.
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This explains broken heart syndrome perfectly!
Thank you for reading x