The Last Time She Counted Eight Pt 1.

Part I

The grocery store on Maple Street never truly slept.

Between midnight and dawn, the automatic doors slid open and shut with a tired sigh, as if the building itself resented being awake. Fluorescent lights hummed softly overhead. Somewhere near aisle seven, a refrigerator clicked on and off like an irregular heartbeat.

At Register Three, Anna Rivera stood with her shoulders slightly rounded, scanning items one by one.

Milk. Bread. Cat food.

Her movements were efficient, practiced. She didn’t rush, but she never hesitated either. The register beeped in steady intervals, a rhythm she had learned without realizing it.

Five years ago, rhythm had meant something else entirely.

“Paper or plastic?” she asked a man in a reflective jacket, her voice neutral.

“Plastic,” he said, rubbing his eyes.

She nodded, bagged his groceries, and slid the receipt toward him. Their fingers brushed briefly. He didn’t notice. Most people didn’t.

When the man left, Anna shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Her right ankle protested immediately—a dull, familiar ache that bloomed just beneath the skin.

She ignored it.

At thirty-four, she had become very good at ignoring things.

________________________________________

During her break, Anna sat in the narrow staff room behind the bakery section. The room smelled faintly of burnt coffee and disinfectant. A metal table occupied the center, scarred with initials carved by employees who no longer worked there.

Miguel was already inside, peeling an orange with surgical focus.

“You look tired,” he said without looking up.

“I work nights,” Anna replied, pouring herself coffee.

Miguel grinned. “Fair point.”

She sat across from him, wrapping both hands around the mug. The warmth seeped slowly into her palms.

“You ever think about switching to days?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Nights are quieter.”

What she didn’t say was that nights didn’t ask questions. No one wondered why she limped when she walked too fast, or why she wore flat shoes even in summer. At night, everyone was too busy surviving their own exhaustion.

Miguel finished peeling the orange and split it in half. He slid one piece across the table.

“You used to dance, right?” he asked casually.

Anna froze.

“What?”

“I saw your old shoes once,” he said. “In your locker. Ballet, I think.”

She stared into her coffee. The surface trembled slightly.

“I used to,” she said finally.

Miguel nodded, as if that answered everything. “Cool.”

He didn’t ask why she stopped. She was grateful for that.

As they stood to leave, Anna noticed a flyer taped crookedly to the bulletin board:

COMMUNITY ARTS NIGHT

Music • Poetry • Dance

All Are Welcome

She stared at it longer than necessary.

Miguel noticed. “You should go,” he said lightly.

She laughed—a short, humorless sound. “I don’t dance anymore.”

“Still,” he shrugged. “Could be fun.”

Anna didn’t respond. She returned to her register, but the flyer followed her like a shadow.

At home, her apartment was quiet except for the hum of the refrigerator. She kicked off her shoes by the door and rubbed her ankle, wincing as she pressed a tender spot.

In the bedroom, she opened the closet.

Her ballet shoes sat in a shoebox on the top shelf. She hadn’t looked at them in years.

The box felt heavier than she remembered as she pulled it down. Inside, the satin was yellowed, the ribbons frayed. She picked one up and ran her thumb along the sole.

Her chest tightened unexpectedly.

She sat on the edge of the bed and closed her eyes.

She could still smell the old studio sometimes—rosin and sweat, the faint sweetness of perfume. She could still hear her instructor’s voice.

“Again, Anna. From the top.”

Back then, her body had answered every command without question.

She opened her eyes quickly and shoved the shoes back into the box.

That life is over, she told herself.

She went to sleep with the flyer folded on her nightstand.

Anna was twenty-two when her ankle first betrayed her.

The audition hall in Chicago had been too cold. She remembered that detail clearly—the way her muscles tightened no matter how much she warmed up.

“You’re next,” the assistant said.

Anna nodded and stepped onto the floor.

She danced well. Not perfectly, but honestly. She felt the music in her bones.

Then came the turn.

She landed, and something inside her gave way.

The pain was sharp, immediate, unmistakable.

She finished the sequence anyway.

Later, in the hospital, the doctor used words she didn’t yet understand: stress fracture, cartilage damage, long-term risk.

“You can walk,” he said. “But professional dancing would be… unwise.”

Unwise.

Her mother cried. Her father stared at the floor.

Anna said nothing.

The community center was smaller than she expected.

Folding chairs filled the room. A makeshift stage stood at the front, barely raised. No curtains. No spotlight.

She almost turned around at the door.

You can just watch, she told herself.

She sat in the back row, hands clasped tightly in her lap.

A teenage boy played guitar. A woman read poetry about her divorce. A child performed a clumsy but enthusiastic tap routine.

Anna felt something loosen inside her chest.

This isn’t a real stage, she thought.

No one expects perfection.

When the host announced, “Next up—open slot,” her heart began to pound.

She stood up before she could stop herself.

“I—” Her voice trembled. “I’d like to dance.”

A few heads turned. No one looked impressed. No one looked disappointed either.

She walked to the stage slowly, aware of every step.

The music began—soft piano, uneven tempo.

Her ankle hurt immediately.

She didn’t jump. She didn’t spin.

She moved carefully, deliberately. Every step was a negotiation between memory and limitation.

At one point, her ankle wobbled. She nearly lost her balance.

She let it show.

For the first time in her life, she wasn’t trying to hide the weakness.

When the music ended, there was silence.

Then applause.

Not thunderous. Not polite.

Real.

She bowed, shallow and imperfect, tears blurring her vision.

Outside, Anna sat on the steps, breathing hard.

Her ankle throbbed, but the pain felt different now—no longer a sentence, but a reminder.

Miguel texted her.

You okay?

She smiled and typed back.

Yeah. I think I am.

She leaned her head back and closed her eyes.

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

She just let it be.