you had always dreamt of becoming a ballerina. ever since those tiny classes as a kid, with your hair in a crooked bun, you knew this was what you wanted. you'd stare in awe at the older girls — the elegance in their twirls, the quiet strength in their leaps — and you’d think, one day, that’ll be me.

and it was. every day, you pushed yourself — rehearsing in the empty studio long after everyone had gone, chasing perfection in every pointed toe and graceful turn. but lately, you weren’t chasing it alone. sunghoon, your boyfriend, was always there. your number one fan, your quiet comfort, your unwavering support.

that night, the air outside was cool against your skin as you stepped out of the studio, dance bag hanging off your shoulder, muscles aching in the best way. and there he was — sunghoon, waiting under the dim streetlight, your jacket draped over his arm, eyes crinkling the moment they found yours.

"there's my ballerina," he said, voice soft, like he’d been saving those words just for you.