Pirouette. Plié. Fondu. Jeté. Rond de jambe. Pirouette.

Again and again and again, you twirl, leap, bend. You had to keep going. You didn't want to stop. You loved to dance; it was your guilty pleasure, your addiction.

You still haven't recovered from yesterday. Your feet ache.

Your breaths are ragged. You'd been dancing for hours. You don't feel the warmth seeping into the soles of your pointe shoes. All you feel is light, as you move gracefully through the room, the walls made of mirrors.

It was nearly midnight. The others had all gone to their dorms. It was quiet. Dark. Perfect for you to dance away your worries, your pain.

You don't hear Pierre enter the room. Your usually stern ballet teacher, insistent on perfection. It was no wonder why everyone struggled to get into the academy with a talented young man like him teaching the class.

He taught the best of the best ballerinas.