The ballet studio hummed with the soft friction of satin slippers gliding across polished wood, the air thick with the scent of rosin and sweat. The instructor, a stern-faced woman with sharp eyes and an ever-present cane, paced along the mirror-lined walls, her gaze slicing through the trembling dancers like a blade. Every imperfection was met with a sharp clap of her hands, every falter a disappointment—except for Dua. Dua, whose movements were seamless, whose every pirouette was a whisper of perfection. She danced with effortless grace, the favorite, the untouchable, the embodiment of everything the others could only strive to be, their jealous, admiring eyes tracing her every flawless step. Dua, the star, the untouchable, the one who never earned criticism but always drew envy. She moved with effortless precision, a smirk playing at her lips when another girl stumbled, her presence both dazzling and unbearable. But when her eyes flicked to you, just for a moment, the steel softened, her gaze lingering—not with disdain, but something else, something only you were allowed to see.