Page 81 of American Beauty

I know this song. It’s on the playlist. I’ve been listening to that music for months, trying to decipher what it means to her.

Hearing the song now feels like a punch to the gut. Each note slices through me with surgical precision, carving into places I thought had scarred over.

The universe continues to fuck with me.

Her performance begins, and she moves with effortless grace, wrapping herself in the white silks. Unease curls in my chest as she climbs.

Magnolia grips the silks and looks like she’s preparing to take flight. I’m rooted to the spot, every muscle in my body taut as I watch her, afraid to even blink.

A soft conversation behind me drifts forward to my ears.

“She has the musical taste of a sixty-year-old woman.”

“I like her songs. She always picks one with meaning behind it. I love watching her. She looks like a graceful ballerina taking flight.”

“Yeah, a ballerina dancing to sad-as-fuck songs.”

“I think something sad happened to her.”

“Oh for sure. You can tell that someone did her dirty.”

With a dancer’s ease, Magnolia winds herself into the silks, her body weightless against the fabric. The world around me dulls, but the sting of her classmates’ words anchors itself in my chest.

I think something sad happened to her.

You can tell that someone did her dirty.

Magnolia moves like she was born for this—every motion seamless as the silks twist and coil around her body. The white fabric clings to her limbs, wrapping and unfurling in perfect synchrony, each movement a blend of strength and elegance. She bends and stretches, every extension a breathtaking display of control and grace, impossible to look away from.

When her feet meet the mat again, she takes off running. She leaps in one seamless motion, catching the silk mid-stride. The fabric snags around her waist, spinning her into a perfect circle as she leans back, arms outstretched. The motion is effortless, the momentum carrying her like a bird catching the wind, weightless and free. For a moment, she looks like she’s soaring.

She wraps one leg around the silk, her arms lifting above her head as she twists, spiraling higher with an effortless ease that makes it look too simple, too safe. But I know better. A single misstep, a slip of focus, and she’ll come crashing down.

My fists clench at my sides, tension winding tight in my chest as she releases her grip, allowing her body to tumble downward in a sudden drop. The air leaves my lungs in a sharp exhale, my stomach plummeting right along with her.

The silks catch her at the last moment, halting her fall with a gentle sway. A collective gasp echoes through the studio, followed by a burst of applause that fills the space.

I can’t move, my heart lodged in my throat.

Magnolia stays suspended for a beat longer, her head tipping back, eyes closed, a serene expression softening her features. She makes it seem effortless.

Beautiful.

Dangerous.

Her performance ends and I step outside, leaning against the wall just beyond the door, where I wait for her. Minutes drag by, each one longer than the last, and doubt creeps in.

What if she slipped out another way?

Just as the worry takes root, the door swings open. She steps into the night, laughing at something the guy beside her says. He’s too comfortable in her space. The easy way he walks next to her, the familiar brush of his arm against hers, the smile he throws her way—it all sets my teeth on edge.

Is this him?

Is this the fucker she’s moved on with?

My jaw clenches, hands balling at my sides as a bitter edge settles into my chest.

I don’t like it.

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