“I can’t dance.”
She stepped closer, her voice soft but steady. “You can still exist in a room.”
That hurt more than I expected, because she was right. Since the accident, I had been perfecting the art of disappearing while still technically being present.
So I went.
She helped me into my dress. Helped me into my chair. Helped me into the gym, where I spent the first hour parked near the wall, pretending I was fine.
People came in waves.
“You look amazing.”
“I’m so glad you came.”
“We should take a picture.”
And then, just as quickly, they drifted away—back to the dance floor, back to movement, back to normal life.
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