I am here.
The Lilac Fairy has arrived.
The moment my foot leaves the stage after my first exit, my lungs burn—not from exhaustion, but from relief. I am shaking, just slightly, adrenaline humming beneath my skin like a second pulse. I don’t let it show. The Lilac Fairy does not rush. She withdraws with intention.
In the darkness of the wing, I listen.
The ballet unfolds without me for a time—Aurora’s christening, the bright precision of the court, the ripple of unease as Carabosse storms in. I know every count, every cue. I mouth the music silently, my body responding even when I am still. When I return to counter the curse, my entrance feels different from the first—firmer, steadier. The fear is gone now, replaced by something like resolve.
I shape the story's fate with my hands.
I feel it when the audience leans in, when the orchestra breathes with me, when the stage seems to tilt toward my center. Each balance settles deeper than the last. I am not proving anything anymore. I am doing it.
Time passes strangely after that. A hundred years flicker by in music and motion. When I guide the Prince toward the sleeping court, my steps feel inevitable, as if they have always existed and I am simply uncovering them. I sense him behind me, following not because he must, but because he trusts me.
That realization tightens my throat.
In my final appearance, when the spell breaks and the world awakens, I feel an unexpected ache bloom in my chest. Joy, yes—but also farewell. The Lilac Fairy does not stay. She ensures the ending, then steps aside.
As I hold my last pose, arms lifted in quiet benediction, I allow myself one heartbeat to feel everything at once—the music vibrating through my bones, the heat of the lights, the weight of the crown, the knowledge that I did not falter.
The curtain falls.
Backstage erupts in sound—laughter, breathless congratulations, the rustle of tutus and relief. Someone squeezes my hand. Someone else hugs me hard enough to knock the wind from my lungs. I smile, dazed, my heart still racing as if the music hasn’t stopped.
Then the call comes.
“Curtain.”
We line up quickly, principals first, the familiar order grounding me again. When the curtain rises, the applause crashes over us like surf. I step forward with the others, bowing once, twice. When I am called alone, I feel it fully—the roar, the warmth, the undeniable certainty that tonight, I belong.
As we join hands for the final bow, I glance out into the darkened house, searching without meaning to.
I don’t know if I can find him.
But I know this: the Lilac Fairy has done her work.
And as the curtain falls for the last time, I carry that truth with me, steady and shining.
The corridor outside the dressing rooms hums with a low, happy chaos—laughter echoing off concrete walls, the rustle of tulle, the sharp scent of champagne uncorked somewhere nearby. I’m still half in costume, my crown gone but lavender ribbons trailing from my hair, when Skylar throws her arms around me.
“You were magnificent,” she says into my shoulder. “I mean it. Not just good. Transcendent.”
I laugh, breathless, the sound still unfamiliar after holding so much control for so long. “You’re biased.”
“Maybe,” she admits, pulling back to look at me properly. “But the audience wasn’t.”
As if summoned by the thought, my father steps closer, carefully navigating around bouquets and dancers shedding layers of costume. Alexandr’s expression is composed as always, but his eyes shine with something dangerously close to pride.
“You were spectacular,” he says—high praise, from him. “The Lilac Fairy requires authority. You had it.”
My throat tightens. “Thank you, Papa.”
He kisses my cheek, brief and formal, then allows Skylar to reclaim me. Someone presses a plastic cup into my hand. Itake a sip—sweet, fizzy, grounding. My legs are beginning to feel heavy now that the adrenaline is ebbing, but my heart is still soaring, buoyed by smiles, congratulations, and the shared glow of survival.
“How do you feel?” Skylar asks as she sips from her cup.
“Exhausted, but revved up,” I admit.
