The Last Time She Counted Eight Pt 2.

Part II

Anna didn’t tell anyone at work that she had danced.

The next night at Register Three, everything looked the same. The same humming lights. The same tired customers. The same ache in her ankle, slightly sharper now, like a bruise that wanted attention.

Miguel noticed anyway.

“You look… different,” he said during break, leaning against the counter with his arms crossed.

She took a sip of coffee. “Different how?”

“Lighter,” he said after thinking for a moment. “Or heavier. I don’t know. Something shifted.”

Anna smiled faintly. “I danced last night.”

Miguel’s eyebrows lifted. “On purpose?”

She laughed. “On purpose.”

“Was it bad?”

She considered the question. “It was honest.”

Miguel nodded, as if that made perfect sense.

________________________________________

Two days later, Anna called her parents.

They lived in a small house outside San Antonio, the same one she had grown up in. Her mother answered on the second ring.

“Anna? Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” Anna said quickly. “I just… wanted to talk.”

There was a pause. Her mother’s voice softened. “You never ‘just want to talk.’”

They spoke about ordinary things at first—work, weather, a neighbor who had bought a loud dog. Anna listened more than she spoke.

Finally, she said, “I danced again.”

The silence on the other end stretched too long.

Her father’s voice came through the line. “What do you mean?”

“At a community center,” Anna said. “Just once.”

“You shouldn’t do that,” her mother said immediately. “Your ankle—”

“I know,” Anna interrupted, surprised by the firmness in her own voice. “I know the risks.”

Her father sighed. “We didn’t stop you because we wanted to hurt you.”

“I know,” she said. And she did. That knowledge had taken years.

“We were scared,” her mother added. “We still are.”

Anna closed her eyes. “I’m scared too.”

That seemed to settle something between them.

The pain worsened over the next few weeks.

Some mornings, Anna woke up with her ankle stiff and swollen, the joint feeling older than the rest of her body. She iced it before work. She stretched carefully, methodically.

At night, music followed her everywhere.

In the grocery store, a slow song played over the speakers. Her foot tapped instinctively before she caught herself. A woman noticed.

“You dance?” the woman asked casually while unloading groceries.

Anna hesitated. “I did.”

The woman smiled. “It shows.”

Those words stayed with her longer than they should have.

The community center called her.

“We’re hosting another arts night,” the coordinator said. “Would you consider performing again? Maybe something longer?”

Anna hung up and sat on her couch, staring at the wall.

Her ankle throbbed, as if it already knew what she was thinking.

That night, she dreamed of the old studio. The mirrors. The smell. The count.

Five, six, seven, eight.

She woke up before the ending.

On the night of the second performance, Anna arrived early.

The room looked smaller than before. Or maybe she had grown more aware of its limits. The stage creaked slightly when she stepped onto it.

Her parents sat in the second row.

Her mother’s hands were folded tightly in her lap. Her father sat stiffly, eyes fixed on the stage as if bracing himself.

Anna met their gaze briefly, then looked away.

This is not for them, she reminded herself.

Backstage—really just a curtained corner—Anna wrapped her ankle carefully. The fabric pressed against tender skin.

You can stop, the familiar voice whispered.

You’ve already proven enough.

She shook her head.

The music began.

This time, she chose silence first. She stood still, letting the audience notice the absence of movement.

Then she stepped forward.

Her dancing was slower now. Each movement carried intention. When pain surfaced, she didn’t fight it—she shaped it.

A turn became smaller. A leap became a reach.

She felt the audience lean in, sensing restraint where there should have been excess.

Halfway through, her ankle faltered.

For a split second, panic flared.

This is where it ends.

Instead of forcing the movement, she stopped.

She breathed.

Then she continued—altered, grounded, present.

When the music faded, the room held its breath.

Applause followed, rising unevenly but sincerely.

Her mother wiped her eyes. Her father stood.

Anna bowed—not deeply, not perfectly.

Enough.

________________________________________

Later, outside, her father approached her slowly.

“You were different,” he said.

She nodded. “I am different.”

He swallowed. “But you were… strong.”

Her mother hugged her carefully, as if afraid she might break.

“We worried we took something from you,” her mother said. “I see now you found it again.”

Anna smiled, exhaustion settling into her bones.

“I didn’t find the old version,” she said. “I made a new one.”

That night, at home, she placed her ballet shoes back in the box.

This time, she didn’t feel loss.

She lay in bed, ankle aching, body tired, heart steady.

For the first time in years, she didn’t count at all.

The music had ended.

And that was enough.