Page 102 of One Last Encore

Letter dated December 28th,5 years ago from the present

It was a lazy Sunday afternoon, the kind where time felt slower and everything was bathed in the kind of golden sunlight that made people romanticize their lives. Ingrid was curled up on the couch, wrapped in a blanket, absently tracing patterns on the fabric while her brain played a never-ending loop of the Act II pas de deux.

Dance had always been her refuge, a place to lose herself when the real world felt too heavy. But over time, she’d realized it had also become a way to sidestep the pain she didn’t wantto confront, an unhealthy crutch disguised as discipline. Turns out, pirouetting away from your problems doesn’t actually make them disappear. Who knew?

She was working on it. Balance and all that. But with Swan Lake coming up, a role she both worshiped and feared, the old anxieties were creeping in. So, instead of giving in, she channeled her energy into a mentally productive space: meticulously visualizing every step, lift, and delicate wrist flick while hoping she wouldn’t spiral into a full-blown meltdown about her career choices.

Then came the knock at the door.

She frowned. She wasn’t expecting anyone. People didn’t just knock on doors these days. They texted. She opened the door anyway, because curiosity kills more than just cats.

She opened the door to Beck, who was holding hot chocolate like it was a peace offering and wearing a grin that said he fully expected it to work.

Without hesitation, she took the cup and sipped. It was disgustingly good, the kind of rich, indulgent warmth that could make a person believe in happiness again.

"So," she said, eyeing him over the rim of the cup, "you really thought hot chocolate would win me over, even though it definitely didn’t last time?"

His grin widened. "Look, I’m not above emotional bribery. Call it dedication. Or desperation. Either way, I’m going for gold, Baby."

Her stomach did a somersault at theBaby. "Wait… did you seriously not get one for yourself?"

"Nope. Hot chocolate is revolting," he said, completely deadpan, like he was stating a scientific fact.

She sputtered mid-sip. "Excuse me?! You used to drink it all the time!"

"I never drank it," he replied with a shrug so casual it bordered on insulting. "I just… held it. Carried it around like a prop. Gave it wistful stares when you were looking."

Her mouth dropped open. "Youpretendedto like hot chocolate?"

"Correct."

"Why?!"

He didn’t even blink. "Because I was a sucker for you, and it made you smile."

She froze, heart stuttering. The way he said it, so lighthearted, yet laced with something deeper, made her chest tighten. Her cheeks flushed, but she refused to let him see how much that small, devastating admission had shaken her.

She narrowed her eyes, mostly to cover how undone she suddenly felt. "So… what, you’re not a sucker anymore?"

"Still am," he said, softer now. "But if we’re starting over, I’m doing it right. No lies. Not even the sweet ones."

Her voice caught in her throat before she managed, a little quieter, "What else did you lie about?"

He held her gaze, steady and unwavering. "Nothing," he said. "I meant every word I ever said to you. Especially the ones you didn’t believe."

She did believe him back then, with every reckless, hopeful piece of her. But over the years, she’d trained herself not to. She’d replayed the moments, picked them apart, convinced herself it hadn’t been real, because believing it would’ve broken her. It was the only way to stay sane. To keep moving.

She didn’t know how he still knew her so well. How he could cut straight through the years, the narratives she’d built to protect herself.

So she took a long sip, giving herself a moment, then lifted her chin with practiced indifference. "Fine. If you say so."

"Glad we got that sorted," he said, flashing a grin. "So… you busy today?"

"Maybe," she replied, adopting a tone of extreme mystery.

"Well, I was thinking we could start our starting over today," he said, his grin morphing into something that could only be described as an attempt to be charmingly persuasive. It was adorable. Annoyingly so.

She sighed, casting a glance back at her perfectly planned lazy afternoon, complete with an anxiety spiral, a blanket cocoon, and the inevitable dramatic window-staring session where she’d overanalyze every little thing about him once she got tired of obsessing over ballet.

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