He rather not stay anymore. He never did. He just wanted out of here. Returning to what he knew — the noise, the chaos, the mess that made sense to him. The one that he created. But that wasn’t an option right now. Not anymore.

The thought consumed him, tearing at him when he was alone, when the weight of the expectations pressed in too hard. Every morning, his reflection in the mirror felt like a stranger, a version of himself who had been chopped and reassembled into something unrecognizable. The sarcasm, the attitude, the defiance — all of it had to be muted. All of it had to be buried, or he'd wind up alone. Like always. Outcast.

And that was the one thing he couldn’t handle.

So, fine. He’d blend in.

No more sneering comments, no more loud protests. He’d keep his thoughts to himself, bury his frustration deep inside.

He started small. Skincare — something Genevieve had shoved at him in a moment of backhanded concern. Surprisingly, he followed through. He didn't argue. Just did it. Every night, behind closed doors, when no one was watching, he smeared creams and cleansers on his face, trying to scrub away the things that were “wrong” with him. He thought about it like maintenance, like he was fixing something broken, making himself more palatable. Like he had to become someone else in order to be acceptable.

Dinner was easier, too. He smiled more. Asked questions like he cared. Made himself useful without being asked — held the door open, told jokes that didn’t sting. He was polite. He was kind. The kind of kind people don’t notice until it’s gone.

But it wasn’t for them. Not really. It was for him — a way to cope, to blend in, to keep the loneliness from swallowing him whole. To keep from being the outsider again.

It was suffocating. It was exhausting.

Around his host siblings, he made the effort to fit in, even when he could feel his real self recoiling. He kept his words in check, stifled his sarcasm until it felt like a quiet ache in his chest. When Genevieve said something sharp, he forced himself to laugh — not because it was funny, but because it was easier to go along with her dry remarks than to stand out. To be different.

Was this what it took to belong? Just pretending — smiling, nodding, becoming whoever they needed him to be? If that’s what everyone else was doing, then maybe he could, too. Even if it meant losing himself in the process.

The worst part was, he couldn’t even tell if it was working. Nothing had changed — everyone stayed polite, kept their distance with practiced smiles and surface-level kindness. No one pushed him away, but no one pulled him closer either. He smiled, they smiled back. He helped out, they gave a nod. It was all transactional. Polite. Hollow. He played the part — but did it matter? Was it changing how they saw him, or just making him easier to ignore?

He felt himself slipping into the background, becoming invisible in the most acceptable way possible. Maybe that was the point. Maybe invisibility was the cost of being tolerated.

This wasn’t growth. It wasn’t transformation. He wasn’t becoming better. He was disappearing — sanding himself down to survive, to fit. To be allowed in without ever really being seen.

Because if he didn’t blend in — if he didn’t bury the anger, the cynicism, and everything that made him Terrence — he knew exactly what would happen. He’d be left out. Left behind. Alone. Just like always.

And the worst part? Some days, he wondered if that’s what he deserved.

He’d been on the other side of this once — the one who rolled his eyes, who laughed a little too loudly at someone else’s expense. He knew what it felt like to make people shrink. To make them feel like they didn’t belong. Maybe this was just the universe evening the score.

All of it — the smiling, the silence, the effort — it wasn’t connection. It was survival. A quiet performance, night after night, just for the chance to be seen. And somewhere in the middle of all that pretending, he couldn’t tell if the real him was still in there… or already gone.

But that was fine. It had to be.

Because what other choice did he have?

He woke in his room again.

The light outside was gray, low, and soft. No sun, just the gentle press of morning through the window. He rose without thinking and stood in front of the glass, staring at his reflection. It had become a habit now. Not vanity—never that. Just... checking. Making sure he still looked like someone.

His skin had cleared up. He looked better. No one had said anything to him in a while. That had to mean something, right?

He leaned in closer, his aquamarine eyes catching the light. He used to like them — how they set him apart, something unique to own. But now? They just felt too bright, too obvious, a reminder that he wasn’t like everyone else. And maybe, right now, that was the last thing he wanted.

He pulled at his hair absently. It had gotten long. Too long. Mrs. Grantham had been dropping not-so-subtle hints about cutting it. He liked the way it looked, but it wasn’t helping him here. He tucked it behind his ears and stepped back.

His shirt felt loose around his shoulders. He hadn't noticed before. The vegetable-heavy meals were working. He thought it would feel like an accomplishment. Instead, it felt... odd. He didn’t say anything. Just dressed in silence.

The kitchen was quiet. For once, the food wasn’t already plated and waiting.

“What do you want me to cook?” Mrs. Verlice asked without looking up.

He stood by the counter, hands in the pocket of his hoodie. It was strange being asked. Usually, everything was decided for him. Safe, balanced, scheduled.

“Something good,” he said. “Can I help?”

She glanced at him, surprised. “Oh. Go ahead.”

They moved around each other in silence at first. It wasn’t uncomfortable, just unfamiliar. He grated carrots too quickly, dropped the peeler, mumbled a quick “sorry.” She didn’t scold him. Just handed him a bowl and showed him how to toss the vegetables with seasoning.

They didn’t talk much, but the quiet was easier than usual. A kind of unspoken rhythm settled between them. He didn’t smile, but he didn’t feel tense, either.

That night at dinner, the table was full. Conversation trickled in soft waves, interrupted only by the clink of cutlery.

“Smells good, dear,” Mr. Verlice said, reaching for the bowl of roasted squash.

Mrs. Verlice hesitated, then smiled lightly. “Well… Renzo helped me cook today.”

Terrence’s hand paused midway to his glass.

The name hit a bit off-key, like hearing a recording of your own voice. He hadn’t heard it in weeks. Not here. It didn’t feel like it belonged to him anymore.

“It wasn’t a big deal,” he said, shaking his head. “And there’s no need to call me that.”

The words came out too fast, sharper than he meant. But no one pushed back.

Mrs. Verlice gave a gentle nod. “Of course.”

She didn’t say it again.

A moment passed. Then, casually, she shifted the conversation.

“Augustin, Genevieve—don’t you two have practice tonight? Maybe you could invite Terrence to go with you?”

Genevieve perked up. “Yeah, he can definitely come. If you’re interested, maybe even try it out? Just to see.”

Augustin spoke evenly. “It’s not a big deal tonight, just a quick run-through before our next match. You can watch if you want.”

Terrence nodded slowly, pushing vegetables around on his plate. “Sure,” he said, not looking up.

He didn’t eat much. Just enough not to draw attention. When Mrs. Verlice offered him more, he politely declined.

Classes passed quietly the next day. He didn’t make eye contact with Mrs. Grantham, just did his work, turned it in, moved on. It was easier that way. The faster he finished, the less she lingered around him. His grades had gone up. That surprised everyone—except him. He’d always been capable. Just distracted before.

That afternoon, he sat cross-legged near the wall of Genevieve’s rehearsal space. The studio was bright but quiet, the late sunlight falling in long strips across the polished floor. The room smelled faintly of rosin and worn-out leather. Mirrors stretched along one wall, reflecting every movement, every flaw, every correction.

The piano started—gentle, deliberate. Notes dropped into the silence like small ripples.

Genevieve stood at the center of the room, tall and focused, her arms raised with practiced grace. Her fingers trembled slightly as she held the opening pose, not from fear—he didn’t think—but from that same tension athletes had right before a jump. Then she moved—slow at first, like she was making sure the room would hold her.

Her steps were clean, almost too clean, like they’d been scrubbed of error. Terrence sat near the wall, hoodie sleeves pulled over his hands, eyes following her across the polished floor. He didn’t really get ballet. But it was hard to look away.

“Again,” Madame Claire called out, her accent crisp. “Pas de chat, from the top. Make it lighter. You are not leaping—you are weightless.”

Genevieve exhaled and reset, arms lifting again. She jumped—barely a sound when her feet touched back down. Her reflection in the mirror followed her like a second self, moving in perfect sync.

Terrence shifted slightly, uncomfortable. His shoulder brushed the wall. The room was bigger than it looked, but he still felt like he was taking up space he wasn’t meant to fill. A few of the other dancers glanced in his direction—just a flicker of eyes, quickly averted—but it was enough.

He pulled his hood up a little more and tried not to look like he was trying to disappear.

One girl sitting with her legs outstretched gave Genevieve a nod, subtle but clearly approving. Another leaned in and said something behind her hand. A quiet laugh followed. They didn’t look back at Terrence, but the timing made his stomach twist anyway.

He wasn’t sure if they were talking about him. It didn’t matter. The feeling was already there.

Genevieve didn’t react. Maybe she didn’t notice. Or maybe she was just used to the background noise by now.

The piano picked up again. A longer sequence—glissade, assemblé, something like a turn, then a pose that made her look like she was unfolding, like a bird stretching its wings. Her arms opened wide and held. Still.

It was strange—how someone who sat across from him at breakfast could look so different here. Sharper, like all the edges she softened around people were suddenly exposed.

He tugged his sleeves down over his knuckles. The wood beneath him let out a quiet creak. It echoed more than he expected.

Genevieve turned her head, just slightly, breath quick, face flushed from the effort. Her eyes met his. He gave her a small nod—measured, careful. Just enough to say I see you. You’re doing good.

She almost smiled. Almost. Then she turned back to Madame Claire.

“She’s very focused today,” the instructor murmured, more to herself than anyone else. “Good. We’ll make something out of this role yet.”

While the dancers took a short break, some of them gathered at the barre. A few traded stretch bands, water bottles, tired murmurs about tight hamstrings and sore toes. One handed Genevieve a towel. She took it with a quiet “thanks” and didn’t say much else.

From where Terrence sat, he could feel the occasional glance land on him. Not hostile. Not exactly welcoming, either. Just... curious. Like he was a misplaced prop on their stage.

He kept his eyes down for a moment, then looked back at Genevieve as the music changed again. Slower this time. Madame Claire said something in French—he didn’t catch it—but the air in the room shifted. Like they were preparing for something sacred.

Genevieve stepped forward again. Arms out. Chin up.

They were running the White Swan variation now.

He didn’t know the steps, but he could tell it was different—more delicate. Her arms moved in wide, slow arcs. Everything about her was fluid, graceful, held together by invisible threads of control. It was beautiful. But there was something else beneath it, too—something aching.

Terrence leaned forward, chin on his palm, following her across the floor with his eyes. She spun once, then again, each landing sharper than the last. The mirrors caught every movement, reflecting her in triplicate. It made the room feel full, like she was dancing through a dream.

He didn’t say anything. Didn’t dare.

But from the corner, where no one quite looked, he watched.

And in that moment, he saw someone he almost recognized—but not completely.

The gym was colder. Harsher, in sound and light and energy.

Gone were the piano notes and the soft scuff of slippers against wood. Here, metal clashed with metal. Sharp commands echoed across the space, crisp and clean like the rhythm of marching boots.

Terrence sat on a low bench near the wall, elbows resting on his knees, hood still up from the walk over. It smelled like sweat and rubber mats and something metallic he couldn’t name.

Augustin stood on the strip, already suited up. White fencing jacket, mask in hand, épée resting against his shoulder. His expression was unreadable—composed, focused, almost cold.

The coach clapped once. “Warm up round. Partner up.”

Augustin nodded at a tall boy across from him. They tapped blades, then fell into form.

“En garde.”

A beat of silence.

“Allez!”

The fight was fast—quicker than Terrence expected. He didn’t fully follow the rules, but he didn’t need to. He could see the control in Augustin’s movements. He barely wasted a step. Advance, retreat. Parry. Lunge. Point.

The sound of their blades striking rang out sharply.

Terrence flinched once. No one noticed.

They reset after each touch—Augustin stepping back into position like clockwork. His body moved like he’d been trained to erase hesitation. There was no room for second-guessing here. Only instinct, repetition, and sharp edges.

After a few rounds, Augustin pulled off his mask. His dark hair was damp with sweat, cheeks slightly flushed. He didn’t look around until the coach spoke again.

“Switch partners. Tighter control this time.”

Augustin took a step toward the benches to drink from his bottle. His eyes brushed past Terrence—just for a second. Brief, unreadable.

Terrence gave him a small smile. Not forced. Just enough to say, Hey, I’m here…Still here.

Augustin didn’t respond. He just turned back, sliding his mask on without a word.

Terrence didn’t blame him. Not really. But the moment left a dull thud in his chest.

The practice went on. More bouts, more drills. There was a rhythm to it—fast, clean, relentless. The fencers called out scores, made quiet jokes, laughed between matches. Augustin didn’t laugh, but he smirked a couple times. Talked with his teammates like he belonged.

Terrence watched in silence. He shifted slightly on the bench, noticing how his presence still drew stares from the others now and then. Like he was a question no one asked out loud.

He rubbed his palms against his jeans, the friction grounding him. A bead of condensation rolled down the side of a water bottle near his feet.

No one said anything to him.

And he didn’t say anything back.