Theea
Yla
The beat finds my ribs like a second heartbeat, and I let it take me.
Dancing with my mom or my dad was never quiet. There was always guitar or singing, wind through pine or snow against cabin windows. Always laughter, hands held tight or spun loose in tiny kitchens or by campfires, in bare feet or half-laced boots. It never mattered what the space looked like—if there was a rhythm, mom pulled me into it. And maybe that’s what makes this so easy now. Even with the noise, even with the press of people and the dizzy glaze of shots behind my teeth, this feels like something I already know how to do.
I am not graceful in a ballroom way, or a seductive way. I am not Flora. But I know my body. I know the joy of moving just because I can, of forgetting what I look like and remembering how it feels to laugh until the muscles in my stomach ache. That’s the kind of dancing I do.
And I’m good at it. Not perfect, not polished, but good.
I throw myself into the rhythm beside Flora, spinning and swaying in the haze of music and glitter, letting it all bleed together until my cheeks are hot and my arms loose with motion. She twirls me and I laugh, loud and bright, the way sunlight slips through windows no one’s bothered to clean, all smeared gold and warmth.
She tells me with a whisper-shout how glad she is I'm here, and I beam. “Me too. Just don’t lose me,” I say—though I’m not sure if I mean it literally or not.
Everyone tonight shines in a way I don’t know how to mimic. Kaisel and Calypso, woven together like firelight and silk. Vesper and Mateo, orbiting each other like stars drunk on gravity.Koa and Sohalia, disappearing like a secret being kept. They all seem to belong to something, to someone.
I’ve got two hands carrying a heart full of hope, but nowhere to put it down.
And I’m trying. I’m really trying not to let that truth sit too heavy in my chest.
I keep thinking about what it means to really belong here—not just survive and show up to parties, but fit. I’ve lived in stories my mother told me about freedom and love and finding your people. I believed in them. But stories don’t teach you what to do when everyone around you already has their chapters half-written.
But mom taught me, whether she meant to or not, that the hardest thing to fight isn’t a monster—it’s being alone. Being forgotten. It’s walking into a room and seeing the world turn without you. That’s the thing you have to cut through, she said. That’s what’ll kill you—if you don’t learn to love the people who walk beside you.
I won’t let a party scare me. I won’t let glitter and kisses and the fact that I’ve never done a body shot in my life stop me from dancing. Especially when Flora’s holding my hand and spinning me through the haze like I do belong here. I’m still laughing when Kaisel steps up, all grins and bows and flirtatious timing, and I blink—genuinely surprised he’s left Calypso’s side. “You two took a break?” I tease, flashing a crooked grin.
I feel the sting of something—jealousy, maybe. But not the kind that ruins. Just the ache of watching people who already know how to fit together. I envy them both—Flora for having someone who knows her so well, and Kaisel for being that person. That kind of closeness is gold in the dark. But it’s not going to ruin the night. Not when the air is thick with bass and sweat and possibility. Not when alcohol is still smoldering in my chest. Not when the lights are turning the bar into a prism, scattering color like it’s trying to convince us we’re all stars. Not when I’m still warm from Flora’s hand, and still steady from her laughter.
Dancing with my mom or my dad was never quiet. There was always guitar or singing, wind through pine or snow against cabin windows. Always laughter, hands held tight or spun loose in tiny kitchens or by campfires, in bare feet or half-laced boots. It never mattered what the space looked like—if there was a rhythm, mom pulled me into it. And maybe that’s what makes this so easy now. Even with the noise, even with the press of people and the dizzy glaze of shots behind my teeth, this feels like something I already know how to do.
I am not graceful in a ballroom way, or a seductive way. I am not Flora. But I know my body. I know the joy of moving just because I can, of forgetting what I look like and remembering how it feels to laugh until the muscles in my stomach ache. That’s the kind of dancing I do.
And I’m good at it. Not perfect, not polished, but good.
I throw myself into the rhythm beside Flora, spinning and swaying in the haze of music and glitter, letting it all bleed together until my cheeks are hot and my arms loose with motion. She twirls me and I laugh, loud and bright, the way sunlight slips through windows no one’s bothered to clean, all smeared gold and warmth.
She tells me with a whisper-shout how glad she is I'm here, and I beam. “Me too. Just don’t lose me,” I say—though I’m not sure if I mean it literally or not.
Everyone tonight shines in a way I don’t know how to mimic. Kaisel and Calypso, woven together like firelight and silk. Vesper and Mateo, orbiting each other like stars drunk on gravity.
I’ve got two hands carrying a heart full of hope, but nowhere to put it down.
And I’m trying. I’m really trying not to let that truth sit too heavy in my chest.
I keep thinking about what it means to really belong here—not just survive and show up to parties, but fit. I’ve lived in stories my mother told me about freedom and love and finding your people. I believed in them. But stories don’t teach you what to do when everyone around you already has their chapters half-written.
But mom taught me, whether she meant to or not, that the hardest thing to fight isn’t a monster—it’s being alone. Being forgotten. It’s walking into a room and seeing the world turn without you. That’s the thing you have to cut through, she said. That’s what’ll kill you—if you don’t learn to love the people who walk beside you.
I won’t let a party scare me. I won’t let glitter and kisses and the fact that I’ve never done a body shot in my life stop me from dancing. Especially when Flora’s holding my hand and spinning me through the haze like I do belong here. I’m still laughing when Kaisel steps up, all grins and bows and flirtatious timing, and I blink—genuinely surprised he’s left Calypso’s side. “You two took a break?” I tease, flashing a crooked grin.
I feel the sting of something—jealousy, maybe. But not the kind that ruins. Just the ache of watching people who already know how to fit together. I envy them both—Flora for having someone who knows her so well, and Kaisel for being that person. That kind of closeness is gold in the dark. But it’s not going to ruin the night. Not when the air is thick with bass and sweat and possibility. Not when alcohol is still smoldering in my chest. Not when the lights are turning the bar into a prism, scattering color like it’s trying to convince us we’re all stars. Not when I’m still warm from Flora’s hand, and still steady from her laughter.
occupation: aspiring beam of light
