Then I slept.

And it wasn't a gradual collapse that built up from how exhausting everything had been this summer, but a complete crash-and-burn.

The storm started in my head and reached out to every other part of me in one smooth movement that I didn't fight.

I leaned against the bathroom door and just slept. I woke up in my bed with nothing left in me to even attempt to stand on my feet.

So, I slept again and again and made up for all the hours of sleep I had skipped, in between small breaks to clean myself up, but I would doze off again in the tub.

I couldn't tell how many days had passed, and I wasn't sure I wanted to find out.

Mom didn't ask questions and didn't force me out of bed like I wished she would.

She fed me whenever I could eat as she brushed back my tangled hair whenever she came to the room. She brought with her unnecessary updates. "Marge got to leave the hospital today. She's going to be living with her daughter for a while to recover", and "I called in sick for you. Your boss sounded concerned". And, most recently, "If your friends don't stop knocking, I'm going to have to answer the door eventually."

Her hair was back into her old, sophisticated buns, but her eyes lacked the detachment she used to have. Maybe that was what kept her from telling me to snap out of it as she would have in the past the second this meltdown started.

The phone never stopped ringing. Mom had set it right next to my bed a few days ago, but I never made any move to reach up to the nightstand and pick it up.

But, from where I was, I watched the caller ID alternate from Ace, Emma, Ace, Miles, then Ace again.

"Kelly," Mom called out from wherever she was before pushing the door open hesitantly. "You've gotten some mail about your class attendance. Oh, and Miles Whitman was here a minute ago. He left you a note. I'll just leave it right here." She placed it on the pillow next to my head before leaving the room the same way she came.

I lied, awake, no longer able to close my eyes after having slept for so long. My body ached for movement.

When my phone rang once again today, I extended my arm from where it rested under my head and browsed the sheets for it. I slid my finger across the screen and waited.

"Kelly?" Ace's voice sounded shocked when I picked up. As if he didn't mind calling without expecting me to ever respond. "You're still alive, right?"

A grunt was all I could produce in response, but he seemed satisfied with it.

"I'll take that as a yes. I just wanted to make sure. Your mom wouldn't let me in when I came by yesterday—you wouldn't believe how strong she can be when guarding someone's door," he said, without taking a second to breathe as though afraid I would hang up on him. "Anyway, I thought you'd be happy to hear that it's getting a little colder outside."

The calm and light quality of his voice was a welcome comfort as I brought a pillow to my chest.

"So, finals are next week. But don't worry about those. Please take care of yourself. I know this is hitting you hard, but you don't have to deal with it alone. I'll learn some magic tricks, and I'll pick up juggling. I'll be your own personal court jester if you need one. Maybe that's my calling."

I laughed, surprising the muscles in my jaw that I hadn't used in a while.

"Oh, and the showcase is right after the finals." He paused. "I don't know if Emma would want me there."

The sound of my voice surprised me, muffled and breathy, as I mumbled, "Yes."

"You think so? We haven't really talked since we broke up. I don't know. I thought—" He sighed. "It doesn't matter."

Maybe it was because this conversation was familiar territory or because I wanted to make him happy that I pulled myself up with my elbows and cleared my throat.

"Ace, you two are still friends even though Emma's mad at you right now. You'll regret it if you're not there to support her when she needs you."

"How about this? I'll be there—front row, even—if you come too."

I hesitated because my mind was numb and because my body didn't remember what moving felt like. Staying here was safe.

For these past few days, I didn't have to think about writing or working. No classes to keep up with. No internship. No Miles. Just me.

Me and Grace, just like it used to be. She had been everywhere—behind the faces of random children at the park that day, in Hazel, in her nightlight, in Mom's tears, and hidden within the necklace.

I had been stuck in this wasteland between ignoring that she had died and forgetting that she had ever been alive for a long time. It had worked perfectly for a decade.

"Kelly?"

"Yeah, I wouldn't miss it."

I hung up, and I glanced at the notepad and pen sitting on the nightstand, waiting for me to pick them up from a sudden burst of inspiration.

But I didn't—I couldn't write. Mr. Crawford was right. Writing was not for me. It didn't matter how much I enjoyed it if my affections were unrequited.

I stood up and dropped the pillow on the floor as I changed into the first clothes my hands touched.

Mom's mouth fell open when I walked out of the bedroom. "Are you going somewhere?"

I dangled the keys in my hand for one second before my arm fell back to my side, unable to hold itself up. "I'm just going to drive around."

She left the book she had been reading on the couch and touched my forehead with her hand. "Kelly, you look sick, and you haven't eaten anything in two days. I don't think it's a good idea for you to go out."

"I can't stay here. I need to be out of here. Don't worry, I won't stay out too long."

A frown formed on her face, but she didn't insist. "Be careful."

That was the last thing I wanted to be right now.

The metal of the car key dug into my palm, but I couldn't sense the pinch. My skin didn't feel like my own.

I wandered around in my car, taking unnecessary turns, speeding without realizing it. When I stopped, I found myself at Duke of all places. I must have memorized the road after doing it so many times.

My feet took over for my brain, guiding me through the parking lot as I dodged students to make it to the Performance Arts building.

I passed by occupied studios and a silly thought popped in my head, more convincing than any rational voice.

If I couldn't be a writer, why was I trying so hard? All my attempts would be in vain, anyway. Everything else seemed so much easier.

At what point did enduring become more foolish than brave?

I pushed open the door to one of the few empty rooms. My keys dropped to the floor as I walked around the room. My hand ran over the smooth ballet barres that felt familiar and safe even after all these years.

Slipping out of my sneakers, I found myself in the middle of the room with my bare feet on the cold laminate flooring.

I didn't ease into it. I launched into what I remembered to be a tour jeté.

It felt imperfect, sloppy, and more painful than it should be. But I wasn't going for pretty and healthy. I was looking for something—anything—to take away that persistent feeling of numbness even if it brought pain along with it.

The leap woke up muscles I couldn't remember ever feeling. They winced and whined under my relentless steps and twists and jumps.

I didn't care because that was the whole point.

If art was supposed to rip out my heart and stomp on it, it might as well do the same with my bones. I cared less about those, anyway.

Pirouette.

Every new move brought along fresh sensations of pain I gladly embraced. Each one brought with it further motivation to continue. I needed to grasp onto something to get rid of that feeling that I was floating despite gravity.

I couldn't catch a glimpse of myself in the mirrors that covered the wall. I was moving way too fast. But I knew what I'd see in there—despair—so I didn't care to look.

Barrel roll turn.

More pain.

The aggressive steps brought dizziness with them.

Everywhere I turned, Grace's face was there, waiting for me with her haunting blue eyes, asking me not to forget her again. Through the painful swivels and the sudden springs, I tried to communicate that I wouldn't, but I didn't know the first thing about honoring that promise.

The constant tapping of my feet on the floor created an erratic beat to make up for the lack of music.

Grand jeté.

My body hit the ground before I even could realize I was falling.

Every muscle complained as I lingered on the cold floor, but I couldn't hear any of them. My mind was louder, heaving and yelling. The whole campus could probably pick up on the noise.

I knew that the floor was probably not moving, but the spinning sensation and the creaking sounds that pierced right through my skull couldn't possibly just be in my head.

I didn't know what to do with the tears that slipped past my eyes. I hadn't cried in so long that they felt weird as they rushed down my cheeks without caring to wait for my permission. With them came more pain. Then relief.

My fingers remained on the floor though they itched to scratch something.

I didn't open my eyes. I welcomed the darkness like it was one of the childhood friends I had fallen out of touch with after first grade.

Then the door creaked open, and light sneaked in.

A/N: Hi, you! Thank you for reading!

Well, Kelly hit rock bottom!

My sister thinks I'm better at writing introspective-type scenes like this one than the ones with cheerful dialogues. What do you think? (Please tell her she's wrong.)

-D.T. ➷