“Would you like to dance?”
I stared at him. “Marcus, I can’t.”
He nodded once, like that wasn’t the end of the conversation.
“Okay,” he said. “Then we’ll figure out what dancing looks like.”
Before I could protest, he wheeled me onto the floor.
I went rigid. “People are staring.”
“They were already staring,” he said. “Might as well give them something worth looking at.”
And somehow… I laughed.
He didn’t dance around me.
He danced with me.
He spun the chair slowly at first, then a little faster when he saw I wasn’t afraid. He held my hands like they mattered. Like I mattered.
“For the record,” I told him, “this is insane.”
“For the record,” he said, grinning, “you’re smiling.”
And I was.
That night didn’t fix anything. It didn’t change my diagnosis or erase the months ahead.
But it gave me something I didn’t have anymore.
A moment where I wasn’t the girl in the wheelchair.
Just… a girl at prom.
