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She threads through the crowd, clutching the flyers. At a corner café, a barista murmurs her name before she orders; the sound of it surprises her — it fits her like an apology. She takes a window seat and spreads the flyers like a map. The page with Kristina’s rehearsal notes catches her eye: a reminder to “pause where it hurts.” The Britney melody loops in her head, impossibly bright: a chorus that insists on movement.