Chapter 1 — The Perfect Plan

Claire

The blush pink fabric of my gown shimmered faintly in the afternoon light streaming through my bedroom window. My fingers trailed along the intricate beading, marveling at how the tiny crystals caught the warmth of the sun. It was perfect—of course it was. I’d spent months searching for it, trying on dress after dress until I found the one that fit the vision I’d curated in my head. Prom wasn’t just a dance; it was proof that I had succeeded, that everything I’d worked so hard for had led to this one, flawless moment. My dress, my date, my night—it all had to reflect the image I’d built of myself.

I ran my fingers over the fabric again, searching for any flaws. None. Good. I smoothed an invisible wrinkle as the gown hung on the back of my closet door, my hazel eyes scanning it one last time. The shoes were next, a pair of nude heels that added just enough height but not so much that I’d risk tripping. They sat beside the vanity, polished and waiting, their straps neatly arranged like soldiers in formation.

My charm bracelet jingled softly as I moved, the tiny silver heart catching my eye. I paused, running my thumb over its smooth surface. Mom had given it to me on my twelfth birthday, the first charm she added to the growing collection. A paint palette. A ballet slipper. A star. Each one marked a milestone, a piece of me. But the heart was different. It represented Matt—our relationship, our future, the perfect couple everyone thought we were.

I smiled faintly, but a flicker of unease twisted inside me. The heart felt heavier than it should, as though it carried more weight than a tiny charm could bear. My thumb hesitated over it, the smooth metal suddenly cool against my skin. Was it guilt? Doubt? Or something else I couldn’t quite name? Lately, Matt had seemed... distant, distracted even. He laughed at my jokes but not as fully as before, and his texts sometimes felt like half-hearted echoes of the conversations we used to have. I shook my head gently, brushing the thought aside.

“Focus, Claire,” I murmured to myself, forcing my attention to my planner on the desk.

The pages were filled with color-coded notes, each detail of prom meticulously accounted for: the pre-prom dinner reservation with Matt, the exact time we’d leave to make it to The Starry Night Event Hall, and even the poses we’d take for photos. I’d bookmarked a few ideas from Pinterest to ensure we’d look coordinated but not overly rehearsed. Matt’s navy suit would complement my blush pink gown perfectly, and the corsage—white roses and baby’s breath—would tie it all together.

Prom wasn’t just a night; it was a culmination. A statement. The final, shining moment before graduation, before we all scattered to chase our futures. Everyone expected me to have it all together, and I couldn’t let them see otherwise. Not tonight.

I glanced at my phone, checking the time. Matt was supposed to text me once he picked up the corsage from the florist. No message yet. That was fine. He’d said he might be running a little late. Still, I pressed the home button anyway, staring at our photo on my lock screen. It was a candid from last summer, taken at Lakeside Park. Matt’s arm was draped over my shoulder, his green eyes crinkling with a smile as we laughed at something I couldn’t even remember now. I’d chosen it because it felt real, genuine. A reminder that beneath the polished surface, there was something solid between us.

Or at least, that’s what I told myself. Sometimes, when I looked at that photo, I wondered if I was trying to convince myself of something that wasn’t there. My thumb lingered over the screen, hesitating before I set the phone down and turned back to my vanity.

My makeup station was already arranged: foundation, blush, eyeshadow palettes—everything in perfect order. I couldn’t afford any mistakes tonight. Not with everyone watching. The faint scent of lavender wafted from the diffuser on my dresser, a deliberate choice to keep me calm, though my heart beat just a little too fast.

“Claire!” Mom’s voice called from downstairs, snapping me out of my thoughts. “Dinner’s almost ready!”

“Be right there!” I called back, setting the gloss down. I stared at my reflection one last time, my carefully composed face staring back at me. “Dinner. Right. Everything needs to stay perfect. Even now.”

As I turned to leave, my gaze fell on my dresser. A small box sat on top, tucked into the corner. I hesitated, then walked over and lifted the lid. Inside were the remnants of my middle school art competition: a few dried brushes, a ribbon, and a tiny sketchbook. I picked it up, flipping through its pages. Charcoal smudges and uneven lines stared back at me, messy and unrefined.

My fingers lingered on a sketch of a ballerina mid-leap, her form slightly off-balance but full of motion and life. I remembered how I’d spent hours on it, not caring if it was perfect, just letting the pencil dance across the page. Back then, I didn’t need everything to be flawless. I just wanted it to feel real.

I swallowed hard, my chest tightening. When had that changed? When had I stopped drawing just for myself?

My grip tightened on the sketchbook as I flipped to another page, this one a rough sketch of a flower garden. The lines were uneven, the shading rushed, but there was an energy to it—a freedom I couldn’t seem to find anymore. My breath caught as the memories rushed back. I could almost smell the faint tang of charcoal dust that used to cling to my hands, the way my heart raced with excitement rather than pressure.

“Claire!” Mom called again, her voice softer this time. “Dinner’s getting cold!”

“Coming!” I said, louder this time, snapping the sketchbook shut. My fingers lingered on the worn cover for a moment before I set it back into the box. This wasn’t the time for that kind of nostalgia. Prom was tomorrow, and my life was exactly where it needed to be. I was exactly who I needed to be.

Still, as I set the box back down and turned to leave, I couldn’t help but notice the weight of the heart charm on my bracelet again. It felt heavier than ever, pulling at me like an anchor I wasn’t ready to let go of.