Jax

  I’ve been home for less than a day, and the silence already feels heavy. The kind that sits in the corners of big houses like this one–expensive silence, polished and hollow.

  My ankle’s propped on a pillow, wrapped and stiff beneath the cast. Every movement sends a dull reminder of what I’ve done. The painkillers dull it, but they can’t touch the ache sitting deeper–the one that has nothing to do with bone or muscle.

  Mother and Father left my room a while ago, after the lecture.

  It wasn’t even the injury that made them angry–not really. It was why.

  “A school play, Jax? You risked your entire season for a school play?”

  “You had already started a good season until we had brought you back from a sprained ankle, only for it to splinter?”

  “You’re supposed to be focusing on skating. That’s your career, not theatre.”

  Mother spat out the word theatre as if it tasted bad.

  I didn’t have the energy to argue. They don’t get it–the stage, the freedom, that moment when the lights hit and everything feels raw and real. Theatre is more incredible than I imagined, sure it doesn’t fill the emptiness as well as dancing, but it’s what I can perform to a crowd, while still keeping my most treasured passions to myself.

  Now, the only sound in my room is the steady tick of the clock and the occasional shift of wind against the window.

  The door creaks, soft and familiar.

  “Knock knock,” comes May’s voice.

  She steps in carrying a tray–tea, a few snacks, and the easy calm that always follows her around. Her dark curls are tied back loosely, and there's a little smudge of flour on her sleeve.

  “You look like someone ran you over with a Zamboni,” she says, setting the tray on my nightstand.

  “Funny,” I mutter, half-smiling. “I feel like it, too.”

  She perches on the edge of the bed, crossing her legs. “So, the prodigy skater finally took a tumble, huh?”

  “Guess so.”

  “Your parents seem thrilled.”

  I snort. “That’s one word for it.”

  May leans back on her hands, studying me with that mix of concern and teasing that only she can pull off. “You’ll heal, Jax. You always do. The real question is–was it worth it?”

  Her words hang in the air. I stare up at the ceiling, tracing the faint pattern in the plaster. “Yeah,” I say finally. “It was.”

  She tilts her head. “Even with the broken ankle?”

  “Even then.”

  I can still see the stage in my mind–the firelight in the hearth, the snow drifting through the shattered window, Milli’s voice cutting through the hush like a spark in the dark. The way she looked at me when I stumbled, panic flickering behind her eyes, but she stayed in character–held the moment together.

  May notices my silence. “Thinking about her again?”

  I shoot her a half-hearted glare. “You don’t even know who I’m thinking about.”

  She smirks. “Sure I do. You’ve got that face–the one you get when you’re remembering someone instead of something.”

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  I don’t deny it. “Her name’s Milli.”

  May grins, propping her chin on her hand. “Ah, the co-star. The mysterious theatre girl who made our prince risk life and limb for art.”

  I can’t help but laugh. “She didn’t make me. I wanted to.”

  “Mm-hm.” She gestures at my cast. “Well, at least you’ve got a dramatic souvenir.”

  We sit in easy silence for a while, the tea cooling between us. Outside, snow taps softly against the glass.

  “I’m supposed to rest,” I say finally.

  May gets up, fluffing the pillow behind me like she’s my nurse. “Then rest. I’ll keep you company. Someone’s gotta make sure you don’t try to sneak back to the rink on crutches.”

  “Tempting.” I admit, settling deeper into the blankets.

  She rolls her eyes, but her smile’s warm. “Get some sleep, Jax.”

  As she dims the lights and hums something quietly to herself, my thoughts drift again–to the sound of Milli’s laugh, the way she said “You’re amazing” in the theatre room weeks ago, and the promise in her eyes when she told me she wouldn’t tell anyone about my dancing. The pain in my ankle throbs in time with my heartbeat, but somewhere beneath it, something else stirs–something stubborn and alive. It won’t be snuffed out anytime soon.

  It’s been twenty-three days since the fall. The doctor says I’m “progressing well,” which sounds better than it feels. The cast is gone, replaced by a thick brace that straps around my ankle like a reminder not to push too far, too soon.

  Walking is awkward–slow and careful, like learning choreography all over again. Every step is both victory and punishment.

  I still wake early, out of habit. My body doesn't understand rest, even if my ankle demands it. Probably never will. So I sit by the window in my room, the one that overlooks the frozen garden, and watch sunlight crawl across the snow. The house is quiet–my parents at work, the staff moving like distant echoes downstairs.

  May’s the first to barge in, as usual.

  She carries a tray with breakfast, balancing it like she’s been doing this forever. “Look at you,” she says, eyeing my tentative steps toward the desk. “Standing upright, almost like a functioning human.”

  “Almost,” I say, easing myself into the chair. “Still a work in progress.”

  She sets the tray down and folds her arms. “You’ve been sulking less. That’s progress.”

  “I don’t sulk.”

  “You brood.” she corrects with a grin. “Big difference.”

  I roll my eyes, but it’s good to have her here. The first few weeks were a blur of frustration–endless ice packs, restless nights, the feeling that my parents were circling like disappointed vultures.

  But there were texts. From people in the drama class. From Abby. And from Milli.

  At first, just check-ins–polite, kind. Then jokes. Little updates about rehearsals, inside references to the play. I really have been welcomed into drama with open arms, I’m nearly as big a part as every other student that is actually enrolled. Somewhere in there, the distance between the stage and this room didn’t feel quite so wide anymore.

  “Got another message?” May asks, like she can read my mind.

  I glance down at my phone, screen lighting up with a familiar name. Millie: You walking yet, or should we start calling you ‘Sir Limps-a-Lot’?

  A laugh escapes before I can stop it.

  May arches an eyebrow. “Judging by your face, that’s her.”

  “Maybe.”

  “Just admit it, lover boy.”

  “Don’t start.”

  She smirks. “Hey, I’m proud of you. You’ve gone from hospital patient to hopeless romantic in record time.”

  I shake my head and type back, barely walking. But I could probably out-dance you with one leg.

  A reply comes almost immediately. Big talk for a guy who took down an entire castle set with one bad landing.

  I can practically hear her laugh through the screen.

  “Go on,” May says, leaning over my shoulder. “Ask her to visit. You know you want to.”

  “I’m not–it’s not like that,” I protest, but even as I say it, I know it’s not true. I do want to see her. To thank her. To stop thinking about that night like it was some dream that broke when I hit the floor.

  May rolls her eyes. “Right. And I’m secretly the Queen of England.” She grabs her apron and heads for the door. “Don’t overthink it, Jax. Just text her. Worst she can say is no.”

  When she’s gone, the silence settles again, softer this time. I stare down at the phone in my hand.

  Want to grab caffeine sometime?

  I type it out, then hesitate. Delete. Re-type. Add a smiley. Delete again.

  Finally I just send: Hey. You still owe me a hot chocolate after the play, remember?

  I set the phone down before I can talk myself out of it.

  Outside, sunlight breaks through the clouds, glinting off the ice-covered garden. It feels like the first real warmth in weeks.

  And for the first time since that night on stage, I don’t feel stuck–just waiting.