Run Before Sunrise… part 1

Dior stepped up to the microphone like she had something to prove, but not to the crowd—to herself. The room was dim, lit by warm stage lights and soft candles on the tables. Poetry night was supposed to be open mics, light expression, healing words. Nothing heavy.

She adjusted the mic once, then twice.

Ace noticed her before she even spoke. He wasn’t supposed to be there. He’d just come to clear his head, lay low for a while, maybe hear a few verses and leave. But the moment Dior stepped on stage, something in him shifted. Familiar. Like a memory he couldn’t place but felt in his bones.

Dior exhaled slowly.

“I didn’t write this down,” she said. “So if I stop… it’s because I had to.”

A few scattered laughs from the audience softened the tension, but her face stayed serious.

Then she started.

“At seven, I learned that family don’t always mean safe,” she said, voice steady but low. “At nine, I learned that silence is something you survive on. At twelve… I learned how to disappear inside my own body.”

The room went still.

Even the glasses stopped clinking. No whispers. No movement.

Ace leaned forward slightly, his jaw tightening.

Dior kept going, words coming faster now like she couldn’t hold them in anymore.

“I used to think it was love when somebody told me to keep secrets. I used to think I was chosen. But I was just trapped in a house where nobody heard me scream unless I made it pretty enough to rhyme.”

A woman in the back covered her mouth. Someone else looked down at their hands.

Dior’s voice cracked, but she didn’t stop.

“I’m not telling y’all this for pity. I’m telling y’all this because I survived it. And I’m still here. Still breathing. Still learning that what happened to me was never my fault.”

Ace’s expression changed—something dark, protective, unsettled. Like he was hearing more than just a poem. Like pieces were clicking into a story he never knew existed.

Dior finally paused, gripping the mic stand now.

“And if you ever meet a girl like me… don’t ask her why she’s quiet. Ask her what she had to survive to still be standing in front of you.”

Silence.

Not awkward silence—heavy silence. The kind that sits on people’s shoulders.

Then one clap. Then another. Then the room erupted slowly, careful at first, like they were afraid to break her.

Dior stepped back from the mic, breathing hard, eyes glassy but proud.

Ace didn’t clap right away.

He just stared.

Because now he knew—this wasn’t just a poem.

This was a wound that learned how to speak.

Ace didn’t let go of her right away.

It wasn’t forceful, not controlling—just steady. Like he was afraid if he released her too quickly, she’d disappear back into whatever space she came from when she was alone.

“I’m sorry that happened to you,” he said again, quieter this time, his voice closer to her ear.

Dior gave a small, nervous laugh as she stepped back just enough to create space between them.

“I don’t need the pity. I am alright. I’ll be okay.”

Her words came out practiced. Like she’d said them so many times they stopped sounding like truth and started sounding like armor.

Ace studied her face. Not just what she was saying—but what she wasn’t.

“You don’t gotta be alright right now,” he said. “You just gotta be real.”

That made her pause.

Because “real” was more dangerous than “strong.” Real meant cracks. Real meant exposure.

Dior looked away, fixing her gaze on the hallway wall like it had answers.

She didn’t tell him everything. Not yet. She never told anyone everything.

About her mother.

About how she didn’t ask questions when Dior tried to tell her what happened.

About how her voice shook in that kitchen the day she said Montrell’s name out loud for the first time—and how her mother didn’t even look at her long enough to believe her.

Instead, she looked tired.

Annoyed.

Like Dior was the problem that disrupted peace.

And Montrell? He stayed family in her mother’s eyes.

Protected.

Untouchable.

Dior swallowed hard, pushing the memory back down where it usually lived.

Ace noticed the shift anyway.

“You still thinking about it,” he said softly.

“I’m not,” she lied too quickly.

That earned a slight tilt of his head. Not judgment—understanding.

“People don’t usually speak on something like that and walk away clean,” Ace said. “That stays in you.”

Dior finally looked at him again, her expression sharper now, defensive.

“You don’t know what stays in me.”

Ace nodded once, like he accepted that boundary.

“True,” he said. “But I know what it looks like when somebody carrying it alone.”

The hallway behind them buzzed with faint noise from the event—clapping, laughter, life continuing like nothing heavy had just been spoken into the room.

Dior crossed her arms.

“I just came here to read. That’s it.”

Ace stepped slightly to the side, giving her space instead of closing it.

“Then let that be it,” he said. A pause. “But don’t make yourself small after speaking your truth in front of all them people.”

That landed differently.

Dior’s jaw tightened, not because she disagreed—but because she wasn’t used to someone noticing the aftermath.

She turned her head slightly.

“I didn’t tell them everything.”

Ace didn’t respond right away.

He just watched her for a moment, like he understood exactly what that meant.

“Yeah,” he said finally. “I can tell.”

A beat of silence passed between them—heavier than the room they just left.

And somewhere deep in that quiet, Ace realized something he didn’t say out loud:

This wasn’t just a girl at poetry night.

This was someone still in the middle of her story.

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