I couldn’t blame them. I smelled like a flooded basement.

I stared at the time on my phone the entire ride, bargaining with every stop.

When I reached the school, I sprinted down the hallway, lungs burning harder than my legs.

The auditorium doors swallowed me into perfumed air.

Inside, everything was soft and polished.

Moms with perfect curls, dads in pressed shirts, kids in crisp outfits.

I slipped into a seat in the back, still breathing like I’d run through a swamp.

Onstage, tiny dancers lined up, pink tutus like flowers.

Lily stepped into the light, blinking.

Her eyes searched the rows like emergency signals.

For a moment, she couldn’t find me.

I saw panic flicker across her face—that tight line her mouth makes when she’s holding back tears.

Then her gaze jumped to the back and locked onto mine.