I have so many ideas percolating, so many pictures flitting around my brain. I would love to bring them to reality, to create something physical, tangible, from my scattered, selfish brain.
I open the car door hesitantly, but I don’t get out.
“Bell?”
I stare at my new Zara flats, a “happy boot-removal” gift from Ma, and pretend that I’m not on the verge of tears. Going to after-school lessons is second nature to me. Sling my dance bag over one shoulder, grab a water bottle from the pantry, and skip into the studio that feels like home. And now, once again, I’m heading off to after-school lessons, but the only thing I feel is terror.
“Bella Rena. Hon. It’s going to be great. You’ll see.”
I look at her. “Okay.” I still don’t move.
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