My hair lifts in a silent, playful response. Music kisses my skin, echoing through my soul. Swaying to the rhythm, I let the billowing breeze sweep me through the movements. My arms extend up, reaching for the stars, a glittering audience spread among a sea of black.
“Are you here?” I whisper along the wind as I continue to dance.
Snow appears as if from nowhere, flurrying with the lines of my arms, tracing all the way to my fingertips. Every brush of it against my skin sends goosebumps pebbling beneath my shirt, but it’s less chilling and more invigorating than anything. There’s no choreography to retain, no one else to judge my timing or technique. Just my body and this wind moving in eerie harmony.
The moon shines on me like a spotlight set from above, and spicy notes of pine and juniper swirl around me like a cozy embrace. It’s one I never want to leave despite the wintry sting that streaks through me. When the music ebbs and I slow my movements, I’m hit with the burn searing into my uncovered fingertips.
I shiver and the wind scoots me toward the sliding glass door, then assists me to open it.
Steadying my breaths, I try to stay calm while nerves jolt deep in my belly. I slide the glass shut, locking it into place, and wait for any movement, wondering if he’s still here…
I wait.
And wait.
And wait…
Nothing happens. Even the wind has receded outside.
When I finally slink back into my room, I notice that the window is no longer open. Did my ghost shut it? My words from earlier are strewn on the glass, still legible enough to read.
With each passing minute it feels more likely that it all was a dream. And the only dream I have time for is ballet.Gisellerehearsals need to be my entire focus. Even if I know most of the steps by heart, that only intensifies my need to perfect them. I should shine within the corps, but it wouldn’t hurt to rewatch the solo variations. While most dancers would rather suffer through injuries and illness than give their spot to an understudy, there’s no harm in being prepared.
Grabbing my laptop, I climb into bed and set it off to the side while I get cozy under the covers before resting it on my knees. Maybe this will kill some time and my ghost will come back. My gaze darts to the thermostat, which is at its usual setting, and my lips pull into a thin line. Clicking ahead to the famous mad scene from Act I, I settle against the pillow behind me. It’s one of the most gut-wrenching moments in ballet that takes skillful acting, transitioning through so many emotions in one scene. The principal in The Randolph Ballet’s 1996 production, Stasia Sylvane, performs with a broken grace that’s absolutely captivating.
The heroine, Giselle, collapses to the ground after learning the true identity of her love, Albrecht: He’s no peasant but is actually the duke and already engaged to a noblewoman. The audience witnesses her heartbreak, and she dances byherself, twined around an invisible force as she relives her whirlwind romance. Conveying an echo of a love that was a lie, she showcases her disillusionment through a series of steps interrupted by pauses and jarring movements, slowly losing her grip on sanity until her heart fails.
I scan through about five or six other productions, replaying my favorite moments. Pausing the performance, I glance between the window and the thermostat, hoping for… I’m not even sure.
Would it all make me less or more crazy at this point?
Chastising myself for my own irrational thoughts, I train my gaze back to the screen, visualizing myself swaying and falling apart with the music, conveying the final moments of Giselle’s humanity before she’s summoned to the woods to become one of the ethereal wilis. Doomed to dance for eternity, luring men to their deaths.
The act closes on the seventh video, the instrumental replaying in my head, strumming over and over like a sad lullaby. My eyes flutter. I glance at the window, finding it empty of anything other than my words. I groan. 4:30 a.m. will be here before I know it, and I need to be at my best and most rested. Curling up in a ball, I pull the covers over myself, settling my head on the pillow. I manage to force myself not to look at the window again and try to get some much-needed sleep.
11
JAX
I’ve tried my best to stay away despite the way my chest aches with the constant thrum of my connection to the beautiful mortal asleep on the other side of the windowsill. Lines mark the glass, and I blow on it, slips of white and silver curling around the letters.
?ereh uoy reA
?xaJ
My brow wrinkles in frustration. This is no language I’ve learned in my harbinger studies.
Then I notice the backward squiggles. Question marks.
Duh.
I chuckle to myself before gliding into her room and spinning around to read the words:
Are you here?
Jax?
She’s trying to talk tome. Hope rumbles through my chest. Does she crave my contact as much as I’ve craved hers?
