“Jesus Christ.” He walked over to me, his hands settling on my shoulders. “Why?”
Because I needed to feel like myself. Because dance was the only time my brain shut up. Because if I stopped moving, I'd have to sit with the reality that I'd never be good enough for the dream I'd lost.
But I couldn't say any of that. It sounded pathetic even in my own head.
“Rosie, talk to me.”
“I hate my body,” I blurted out. The words hung in the air between us, raw and ugly. “I hate that it betrayed me. I hate that I did everything right...every physical therapy session, every exercise, every modification...and it still wasn't enough. I hate that I look in the mirror and see a dancer's body, but I can't be a dancer anymore.”
Derek's hands moved from my shoulders to cup my face, forcing me to look at him.
“I spend hours dancing because when I'm moving, I forget,” I continued, my voice breaking. “I forget that my hip is artificial. I forget that my turnout is gone. I forget that I'll never be Odette or Giselle or any of the roles I dreamed about since I was four years old. When I'm dancing, I'm just... me. The me I was supposed to be.”
“You are still you,” Derek said fiercely. “With or without ballet. Your body didn't betray you, Rosie. It survived somethingtraumatic and it's still here, still working, still strong enough to dance for seven fucking hours apparently.”
“But it's broken…
“It's not broken. It's different. There's a difference.” His thumbs wiped away tears I hadn't realized were falling. “I get it. Trust me, I get it. I look at my knee and see the scar, and I hate it too. I hate that it's weaker. I hate that I can't trust it the way I used to. But it's still my knee. It's still getting me through games, through practices, through life. It's just doing it differently now.”
“I don't know how to accept the difference,” I whispered.
“Me neither. But maybe we can figure it out together.” He pressed his forehead to mine. “No more seven-hour dance sessions, okay? Not because you can't, but because you shouldn't have to punish yourself for something that wasn't your fault.”
“It feels like my fault. Like if I'd just been stronger, more careful…”
“No.” His voice was firm. “We're not doing that. You don't blame me for getting injured, do you?”
“Of course not. That asshole deliberately…”
“Exactly. It wasn't my fault. And your injury wasn't yours either. Sometimes bodies just... break. That doesn't make them any less worthy. It doesn't makeyouany less worthy.”
I wanted to believe him. I wanted to look in the mirror and see strength instead of failure.
“Can you try something for me?” Derek asked.
“What?”
“Can you try being as kind to yourself as you are to me?” He smiled softly. “Because the way you look at me, the way you talk to me about my recovery. Like I'm still whole, still capable, still Derek...that's how I see you. I just wish you could see yourself that way too.”
My throat closed up completely. No one had ever said anything like that to me. Not my parents, not my teachers, not even Aaron.
“I don't know how,” I admitted.
“Then let me show you.” Derek pulled me into his chest, his arms wrapping around me securely. “Every day, I'm going to remind you that you're more than your injury. More than ballet. More than any one thing. Until you believe it.”
“That might take a while.”
“Good thing I'm not going anywhere.”
I buried my face in his chest and let myself cry, for the career I'd lost, for the body I resented, for the girl I used to be. And Derek held me through all of it, his heartbeat steady against my ear, his hands gentle in my hair.
For the first time in two years, I didn't feel quite so alone in my grief.
“You've been spending a lot of time with Derek lately,” Daisy mentioned in passing as we were out grabbing pizza as part of our roomie date night. It was Saturday, and we should have been at a party. I should have been practicing flirting, but I didn't want to be where Dex was and witness him flirting with others.
“He is helping me with the whole flirting and finding a boyfriend situation, and I'm helping him in Pilates. That's all,” I shrugged, suddenly very interested in my can of Coke.
My roommate laughed. “I'm not Aaron, you don't have to bullshit me. I see the way your eyes light up when he texts.”
