The Person You Choose
She thought of her father, dead and silent, leaving her with only the lesson that wanting couldn't save you.
"I'll fall," she said. "That's the point. I need to know I can get back up."
Grayson looked at her—really looked, the way Dante had taught her to look at people, seeing the structure beneath the surface—and nodded. "I get that. I do." He reached across the table, touched her hand briefly, withdrew. "No performance. Just ice. Just falling. Just getting up."
After school, she walked home alone. The garage apartment was lit, Dante visible through the window, sketching, always sketching. She didn't go to him. Went inside, up to her room, opened her hidden journal.
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