Better Left Unsaid
Copyright© 2025 by Heel
Chapter 1: Opening Night
The air backstage shimmered with nerves and sweat. The velvet curtains were drawn, the orchestra was tuning, and the faint hum of the crowd beyond the footlights buzzed like electricity.
Clara Vance stood in front of the mirror, her reflection pale under the dressing-room bulbs. The white silk of her costume caught the light. Around her, the others did their rituals — lipsticks, prayers, last-minute lines.
Nick Hart leaned in the doorway, smiling. He was in costume too, his shirt half-buttoned, the collar open in a way that made him look effortlessly composed.
“You’ll be brilliant,” he said.
She laughed once, softly. “You always say that before opening night.”
“Because it’s always true.” He hesitated, then added with a grin, “Break a leg.”
“Thank you.”
She smiled — that wide, bright smile that made the stage lights seem made for her.
Moments later, the stage manager called, “Places!” and the cast scattered like startled birds. Clara took one last breath, steadied herself, and stepped into the wings.
The show moved like a current — alive, unpredictable. Clara’s voice carried through the theatre, each line measured and clear. She was radiant. Every cue, every gesture fell exactly where it should.
Nick watched her from the wings, heart caught between pride and something heavier. He had always admired her — her precision, her fire, her way of making every word sound like truth.
The scene in question came near the end of Act II — the storm sequence, where she was meant to cross the stage barefoot and collapse dramatically onto a raised platform. The crew had rehearsed it dozens of times. She knew every step.
But that night, something was off.
The rain machine droned a little louder than usual. The lights flickered — only slightly, but enough to draw her eye. One of the ropes backstage creaked where it hadn’t before.
The set glistened faintly; someone had spilled a thin layer of water from the prop basin, unnoticed in the rush.
Clara entered, the audience hushed. She moved barefoot across the boards, the cold of the stage biting her skin. Her skirt brushed against her legs. Her timing was perfect.
And then —
A loose edge of fabric snagged on a wooden brace. It was nothing, a tiny pull, but it caught just enough to tilt her weight off balance.
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