Empty Echos

Monday hits like a train.

I drag myself into rehearsal, body moving before mind. My limbs ache, not from dancing but from existing. I'm late, and no one says anything. Not that they would. I move like a wet mop—sodden and graceless—smearing the grime of the last week onto the floor and onto anyone who gets close. I feel like I'm leaking all over the room. My breath, my bones, all heavy. All too much.

Every step feels borrowed.

I don't speak to anyone. I don't smile when the stage manager jokes. I mouth lyrics like they're foreign sounds. I don't remember choreo. I just move, second nature, like a ghost inside someone else's body. The music pulses around me, the other dancers laugh, chatter, live. I'm not there.

I leave before anyone can ask me anything. I almost make it.

Kira catches me just outside the theater, her hair still damp from post-show sweat, cheeks pink and glowing like she's lit from the inside. She calls my name gently, like she's worried I might break.

"Hey... are you okay?"

"I'm fine," I lie.

She watches me for a moment, too smart to believe me.

"I just wanted to say I'm sorry," she says. "For coming onto you like that at the party. I didn't mean to make things messier."

I stop. Shake my head.

"No, it's not on you. I pull people into my mess because I don't know how not to. I wanted you. That wasn't your fault."

She exhales. A small, understanding smile flickers across her lips.

"I only ever wanted to have fun," she admits. "But I do care about you. Really. As a friend."

"Thank you," I whisper, and I mean it.

And then the week grinds on.

Show after show, costume change after costume change. Fans scream at the stage door. Applause swells through the theater. Glitter falls. Lights burst and fade. My name gets called, my solos land, the standing ovations come and go—and I feel nothing. Absolutely nothing.

The stage doesn't hold me the way it used to. I used to find warmth there, comfort, purpose. Now it feels like I'm performing the shape of myself. Like I'm pretending to be Lena.

I am empty.

But Kira is there. Every day. Asking how I am, giving me long hugs I don't ask for. She talks about dumb things, tells me stories that don't matter, makes me laugh in tiny, short bursts I barely recognize as joy. She doesn't push. She doesn't prod. She's just there. A friend.

No one else calls. No messages. No pings. Not from E. Not from Stefani.

And maybe that's right.

Maybe I don't deserve anyone right now.

By Friday night, after the curtain falls and the crowd erupts again, I just want to disappear. I start walking home, head low, but Kira catches up with me in the alley behind the theater.

"Come over tonight?" she asks, hopeful. "I'm making pasta. No pressure. Just food. Maybe a movie. You can sleep if you want. I just... I'd like to hang out with you."

I nod.

I don't say anything else. But I nod. Because even though I feel like I've ruined everything—maybe even myself—there's something about the quiet of her voice, the softness in the ask, that makes it feel okay to say yes.

Even if I don't know how to feel anymore, I know how to say yes.

And that's something.

The city hums under my window, a low buzz that matches the static inside my chest. I'm home, but I feel anything but. The apartment is too quiet. My body is too loud. Thoughts clamor in my head, chasing each other like dogs on a leash.

Yesterday, in a moment of clarity—or maybe desperation—I booked a flight. Iceland. Tomorrow morning. Just a few hours away. Just enough time to look E in the eyes and be honest. Brutally, finally, painfully honest.

She deserves that. She deserves the truth in its ugliest form, even if it wrecks us for good.

I strip down, stand under scalding water until my skin turns pink and my sins feel like they might slide down the drain with the steam. They don't. I get out, towel off, throw on something that barely qualifies as an outfit—messy sweats, a hoodie that smells like the theater, my hair wild and undone. I grab my keys, my phone, a bottle of water, and head out. No makeup. No mask. Just me, the storm.

Kira's place is warm when I arrive. Soft light spills from her windows, the smell of garlic and tomato thick in the hallway. When she opens the door, her whole face lights up.

"There she is," she grins, pulling me into a hug that's tighter than it needs to be. It feels good. I melt into it for a second longer than I should.

She tosses me a joint as I toe off my shoes. "Welcome home, I guess."

We settle at her tiny dining table, legs tangled beneath it. The food is incredible—heaping bowls of pasta that we shovel into our mouths like feral children. Red wine bleeds into the corners of our smiles. We pass the joint back and forth until our limbs go soft and our hearts loosen a little. The air fills with the smell of weed, tomato, laughter, and something almost like peace.

It's easy. Too easy.

"I don't think I've eaten a meal sitting down in weeks," I admit between bites.

She laughs. "That's a crime. Artists deserve carbs."

I smile, swirling my wine.

And then I talk.

I tell her about Puerto Rico—how the ocean raised me, how the sand stuck to everything, how I danced barefoot in the heat until my soles toughened like leather. I tell her about leaving, the aching pull of New York, the culture shock, the grind, the auditions, the sleepless hunger. Getting cast in ARTPOP's tour felt like someone picked me out of obscurity and handed me the moon.

"I thought I peaked at twenty-one," I murmur, pushing pasta around my plate. "I didn't realize the highs only got higher. Or the crashes deeper."

She listens, chin on her hand, blonde hair spilling down her arm. Then she smiles.

"I was a theater brat," she says. "Northern California, baby. My mom had me on stage before I could spell. Choirs, community musicals, small roles in regional plays. I loved it all. I still remember the first time I wore a mic."

She pulls out her phone and tosses it to me. Grainy pictures of a teenage Kira flood the screen—curly hair, sparkly costumes, braces shining under stage lights.

"I was obsessed with Into the Woods. I thought I was gonna be the next Bernadette Peters."

I laugh. "You kinda give Bernadette energy."

She hides her face in her hands and giggles. "Stop. I will cry."

We laugh for a while. It feels light. Weightless. Like floating in someone else's story. Then her voice drops, her eyes find mine across the table.

"Okay... but seriously. Tell me everything. What's really going on?"

I pause. Swallow.

And then it spills.

All of it.

Stefani. E. The tour last year. The intimacy in shadows, the things we never said. The night I met Elena and how she made me feel worthy, whole. How Stefani and I shared one last night after I'd already promised myself to someone else. How I thought it was closure—but it wasn't.

I tell her about the tension that simmered between us this whole time, the kiss at the Wicked afterparty, the weekend in the cabin, the confessions we couldn't take back. I tell her how much I love E. How much I love Stefani. How much I hate myself for loving both.

"I'm going to Iceland tomorrow," I say, voice thin. "Just for a day. I need to see E. I need to close things. Or try to. I can't keep living like this."

Kira watches me for a long moment. Then she nods.

"I think that's a wise choice," she says softly. "Do you... do you know what you want?"

I open my mouth. Close it. "No. I don't."

She doesn't push.

We end up on her couch, curled up beneath a blanket with our legs tangled and the TV flickering something neither of us is watching. Her hand finds my curls, absently threading through them. My arm wraps around her waist.

There's nothing sexual about it. It's just comfort. Warmth. A quiet anchor in a storm I created.

And when we both drift into sleep, it's the first time in days I don't dream of anyone else.

Just silence.