Under the Big Top tonight, the air is thick, stifling. Sweat trickles down my spine, mingling with the tension that hangs in every corner of the tent. Across from me stands a young woman, eyes wide and full of hope—and despair. She's begging for something, a glimmer of an answer about the love she's lost, and I can feel the weight of her sorrow like a stone pressing against my lungs.
Around me, Cyrus prowls, circling like a wolf, his eyes gleaming as he watches the scene unfold. His presence keeps me tethered, a puppet bound to his will, every word and gesture orchestrated to perfection.
"Will he come back to me?" the woman's voice trembles, her plea reaching me from somewhere far beyond my own racing heart. Her desperation fills the space around me, drowning out everything else. I can barely breathe.
"Do you want him to?" I hear myself ask, the words slipping out, somehow hollow yet steady.
She presses a lock of hair behind her ear, her gaze shifting uncertainly. "I... I don't know. I thought I did. But maybe..."
The heat along my back fades, replaced by a cold, fluttering sense of detachment. I'm calm, numb. Another string pulled, another line to deliver for Cyrus' grand show.
"He'll come back," I declare, my words resonating through the tent, drawing a collective gasp from the crowd.
The woman's expression falls, her hand raking through her hair, agony written on her face.
"But," I continue, feeling a pull deep within me, "he'll never give you what you need."
Her lips part, her hand pressing to her heart as if to shield it from the blow. "But I love him."
My throat burns. "People who love you will never leave you," I thunderously deliver, "unless they have no other choice."
The words echo within me, wrapping around some buried truth. They settle there, deep in the hollow of my memory, reverberating like a faint, familiar melody: I had no other choice. I had no other choice.
The woman kneels, her gaze softening as she breathes out a quiet, "You're right."
"He will return to you," I say, the sound strangely calm. "But by then, you will have moved on. You'll find someone who will stay beside you, someone who would never leave."
Hope flickers across her face, replacing the lines of sorrow. "There will be someone else?"
"Yes," I reply, the certainty surprising even me.
A spark lights up in her eyes, fragile yet eager. "What will his name be?"
My mouth resists, but a single word falls out, an answer that I don't choose. "Tristan."
The name lingers in the air, the woman's lips shaping it with a tentative wonder. "Tristan..."
The crowd erupts, their applause crashing like waves, an ocean of sound that feels as empty as my own words. But Cyrus, ever the maestro of the spectacle, beams with satisfaction, pulling each cheer and whistle as if they were strings in his hand.
The other performers drift forward, stepping into the glow of the stage lights, their faces lit with wide, perfect smiles. I feel my own lips stretch into a similar grin, but it's all a façade. Exhaustion pulls at my limbs, anchoring me to the ground. I only have to get through the curtain call. Just this last moment, then the after-party, then sleep.
A warm hand finds mine, and I glance up to meet Theo's sapphire eyes. His grip is gentle but grounding, a quiet assurance that cuts through the weariness. His fingers give mine a slight, steady squeeze, and I hold on, letting his presence lighten the weight I'm carrying. Together, we lift our joined hands as we take our final bow, and I lean into the comfort of his steadying presence, my head finding a spot to rest on his shoulder.
YOU ARE READING
Spectacular! - ON HOLD
Fantasy"Smoke and mirrors are for cheap tricks and county fairs, Kenna," he says quietly. "The circus... the circus is where magic and mayhem collide." Nineteen-year-old Kenna Oberman leads a sheltered life taking care of her sickly mother until she's gift...
