Nochelle - Our Stories

O H . . .

~Season 4 because I never write it~

Richelle's had her fair share of bad days. This one doesn't immediately stand out from the pack – it isn't especially cruel or callous. No-one's in the hospital, no-one's in danger. As days go, she's definitely had worse.

And yet, everything is overwhelming; the studio is bright and loud with new students after their Internationals win, leaving her stomach in knots; she's hit a slump with the duet choreography; gotten a very rude anonymous review; and still has to wait around the building since Michelle's working on her solo.

Everything is a little off today, just enough for her anxiety to go haywire but not enough for it to feel justified, leading to an embarrassing downward spiral of emotions.

Riley has already gently urged her to walk home, but she can't bring herself to just yet. In all honesty, the thought of being home with a house full of rowdy children running around gave her a headache just thinking about it. So instead she finds herself here – Studio B, where all of the costumes are organised into neat boxes and nobody would find her. Here she can cool down in the dim lighting without any of the new team bothering her.

Of course, the moment the door swings open, Richelle weakly thinks she should have known better. The universe is definitely not on her side today because, as if part of some cruel cosmic joke, Noah saunters in, eyes brightening as he spots her.

"Hey, there you are!" He hasn't noticed yet, how wrecked she is. She fights the urge to flee or to yell at him to leave her alone, although Noah's good enough of a friend that she knows that wouldn't get her off the hook. He leans against the shelves of clothes, a familiar crooked smile on his face.

"What are you still doing in here? I know you like admiring my old costumes, but our rehearsal ended an hour ago."

"Erm—Riley wanted me to find something for our duet, a hairpiece, I think." She tries her best, but it still comes out all wrong, too raspy and shuddery. She can pinpoint the exact second he realises, finally notices that her cheeks are flushed too pink and her pupils are shot to hell, because she can see whatever playful retort he had planned die in his throat, his usual grin quickly morphing into gentle concern.

She hates that look, the one that makes him all soft around the edges. It's the one that reminds her that despite the fact he usually masks it behind playful banter or a staggering amount of bravado, Noah really cares about her. That's something she's ill-equipped to deal with on a good day, let alone now, here in the half-light where it's just the two of them and her guard is completely down.

"Are you okay?"

"Not really." She just about manages, lip trembling, before hot tears are falling from her face again. Richelle instantly turns away, covering her face, overwhelmed with embarrassment at falling apart in front of anyone—let alone Noah—like this. She wants him to crack an inappropriate joke right now or panic and leave like he sometimes awkwardly does when a anyone gets emotional and he doesn't know what to say.

But he doesn't, because of course he's never made anything easy for her. Instead, she gets a comforting, "hey, hey, it's okay," in a hushed, gentle tone, feeling the firm, reassuring presence of his arm across her shoulder.

"God, sorry." It just spills out of her, cracked and hissing like pressure from an air valve as she flushes with shame. Richelle hates crying in front of anyone, an unfortunate side effect of growing up so competitive and her absolute determination to never let any weakness show. Vulnerability is something she can't really afford, especially since she's dancing on an Internationals winning team, desperate to prove herself. This is intensely awkward and very unprofessional, and she just wants the floor to just open up and swallow her whole.