The Day I Fell

The juice box was warm.

Not hot. Not cold. Just wrong. Like something left too long in a van, passed hand to hand until it reached her — dented at the corners, the straw taped loosely on the side.

“Drink all of it,” the medic said, not looking her in the eyes. “Your bloodwork’s low again. You want to faint on stage?”

Rumi didn’t answer. She didn’t care for rhetorical threats.

She took the juice with one hand and gave a nod sharp enough to end the conversation.

Apple. Again.

She walked barefoot across the concrete, her boots dangling from two fingers, her back slick with post-rehearsal sweat. The corridor behind the stage was a fluorescent-lit coffin — humming lights, open equipment crates, gaff tape peeling off the floor like shedding skin. She passed dancers stretching, choreographers arguing, a stylist silently weeping over a dress someone tore during the bridge.

No one looked up.

She sank onto a flight case marked “VOCALS,” peeled the straw off the box, and poked it through the foil with a soft sigh. The first sip tasted like chemicals and childhood. Sweet. Shallow. A little bitter near the end.

She hated the taste. She drank it anyway.

The way she did everything.

...----------------...

She stood to leave, adjusting her jacket — and that’s when he appeared.

No footsteps. No warning.

Just a blur of motion to her right, a hoodie brushing her arm, and suddenly her body jolted sideways. The juice box slipped — slapped the floor.

She caught herself with one hand, palm skidding across the cold metal rim of the soundboard. She straightened, sharp with breath.

The boy — no, guy, definitely older — didn’t pause. Didn’t look.

Just a single line thrown backward like a knife over the shoulder:

“Watch where you’re going.”

His voice was deep, like it had traveled through too many tunnels before reaching her. Not cruel. Not kind. Just blunt. Thoughtless. As if she were part of the floor plan he had to get around.

She blinked. Took in the details as he vanished — hood still up, black cargo pants, boots that didn’t squeak. A clipboard tucked under one arm like he belonged to tech, but no badge, no lanyard.

He walked like someone used to backstage mazes. Not lost. Not new.

And yet —

She’d never seen him before.

That alone was rare.

Her hand still tingled from the catch. She glanced down at the fallen juice box. It had burst slightly at the seam, dripping across the concrete like blood. One of the backup dancers stepped in it without noticing, trailing a sticky smear down the hall.

Rumi stared after the stranger for a long time.

He never once looked back.

...----------------...

The next day was bright and hollow — the kind of day made of sponsored hashtags and exhaustion disguised as glitter.

Soda Pop was their opening number. Cute, loud, exhausting. The choreography was all bounce and chaos, all fizzy vocals and saccharine stage smiles. Rumi moved through it on autopilot, the music drilled into her muscles by endless rehearsal.

She hated this song.

Not because it was hard. Because it was fake.

The smile she wore felt like a plastic mask stapled to her skull. Her chest burned from the cardio. Her knees ached from the pre-show run-through. Her soul — if she still had one — was busy trying to climb out of her body.

Halfway through the second chorus, she saw them.

Juice boxes.

Hundreds of them. Labeled with her group name. Stacked in open crates by the fan pit barricade. Staffers handed them out like prizes, waving and laughing, letting the crowd squeal and snatch them up like gold.

Same brand. Same box.

Apple.

She stared as one girl clutched hers to her chest like it was sacred. Another screamed and threw hers in the air. One fan bit the straw and waved at the stage — at Rumi, specifically — mouthing something like thank you.

Rumi’s throat closed.

That was her blood sugar supplement.

Her medical juice. The thing they gave her so she wouldn’t collapse after skipping two meals and rehearsing until 3 a.m.

They’d turned it into merchandise.

“Fan treats sponsored by HeartPop Juice! Featuring the real backstage flavors of your favorite idols!”

Her fists clenched in the middle of the hip sway. She nearly missed a beat.

No one noticed.

She was just one more moving piece in the soda-pop machine. Smile, sing, step left. Keep the rhythm, keep the brand. Stay sweet, even as your insides turn.

And then—

Just beyond the edge of the stage lights, under the rigging — him.

The boy from yesterday.

Same sharp jawline. Hoodie gone now. Just a black t-shirt and folded arms. Leaning against a lighting rack like he had every right to be there.

Watching.

Not the audience.

Not the full group.

Watching her.

...----------------...

She didn’t look away.

And neither did he.

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