I reach my apartment building and pause, keys clutched in my palm. For a moment, I let myself imagine turning around. Let myself imagine finally seeing him. Putting a face to the weight that’s been pressing on my life for a year and a half.
The thought sends a shiver of anticipation through me and I close my eyes against the frustration of it all.
This shouldn’t thrill me. Iknowthat. But for some reason, the visceral response it creates in me is completely beyond my control.
I swallow and unlock the door, slipping inside and locking it behind me. The familiar click echoes too loudly in the quiet hallway. I stand there for a second, heart racing, ankle throbbing, and let the mask fall away. I have to tell myself it’s only two flights of stairs to my apartment. I’ve climbed them a thousand times. I can climb them tonight.
As I take each step one at a time, the truth settles in my chest heavy and unavoidable. Ballet is ending for me in a way I can’t slow down or stop. This isn’t my first injury, but it is the first one that hasn’t healed quickly.
I don’t know when ballet became something I was losing instead of something I loved, but the injury made it impossible to ignore. Twenty-four isn’t supposed to be old. Not in the real world. But here in my world, I might as well be ancient. Every plié feels like borrowed time. Every performance like a goodbye I’m not ready to give.
I sink onto my couch and press my forehead into my hands.
I gave everything for this.
My childhood. My body. My future.
I stayed untouched because I had to. Because an accidental pregnancy would’ve ruined everything, because desire was a distraction I couldn’t afford. No man ever tempted me enough to make the risk worth it, thankfully. But now I’m at the end of my career and alone. I have nothing to show for any of it but a few show programmes and a handful of articles written about me.
I’ve never seen the man behind the gaze that makes my skin heat, but I know something has changed inside me because of it. I know the way his attention makes my blood hum. I know how alive I feel when I sense him watching, like he’s pulled something out of me that ballet never quite could.
Somewhere out there, he knows I’m hurting. He knows I danced through it anyway. I can feel the satisfaction curling low in my belly at the thought, dark and unwelcome. As confusing as it is thrilling.
I tell myself I’m imagining it, that it means nothing. But as I stand and limp toward my bedroom, the certainty settles in mybones. Whatever comes next is already in motion, and I’m not going to be strong enough to fight it even if I want to.
Avros
She dances through the pain exactly the way I knew she would.
I feel it the moment her ankle falters, the smallest hitch in her balance that no one else would ever notice. Not the audience. Not the critics. Not even the other dancers sharing the stage with her. But I’ve been watching her body for too long, learning the language of it the way men learn weapons or war.
Her pain speaks to me.
It curls through her movements, buried beneath discipline and grace, and it makes something dark and possessive tighten low in my gut. She refuses to give in to it. She never does. That stubborn refusal is part of what drew me to her in the first place.
Emma doesn’t break easily.
The stage lights give her a pale glow, turn her into something almost unreal. All long lines and aching beauty. She moves like she’s already half gone, like she’s dancing on borrowed time, and the knowledge settles into me with quiet certainty.
This is ending for her, and she’s finally starting to realize it. Maybe even accept it.
The audience watches her like she’s a miracle. They don’t understand what they’re seeing. They never do. They see the performance, the illusion, the fantasy she’s spent her life perfecting. They don’t see the cost.
I do.
I see the way her jaw tightens when she lands. The micro-hesitation before she turns. The way her breathing changes when the pain flares, and when she pushes through anyway.
I don’t move closer.
If she needed me, I’d already be there. If she were in danger, if someone dared touch her without permission, they wouldn’t leave the building under their own power.
But this?
This is her battle.
She finishes the adagio flawlessly, holding the final pose like her body hasn’t betrayed her at all. The audience exhales, applause peppering through the theatre in a warm, meaningless wave. She doesn’t bow immediately.
She waits.
