In the heart of Paris, in 2002, Cross danced alone in the studio, as was his daily ritual before anyone else arrived. The early morning light streamed through the tall windows, casting long, ethereal shadows across the polished wooden floor. Each movement he made was precise, yet tinged with the weight of his inner struggle. The quiet studio, usually a place of solace, now echoed with the thoughts he couldn’t escape—the nagging doubts that he wasn’t good enough, that his technique lacked the perfection he craved.

Cross pushed himself harder, his body moving in sync with the silent music in his mind, trying to outpace the whispers of imperfection. His breath was steady, but his heart raced, each pirouette and leap a desperate attempt to silence the voice telling him he’d never measure up.

So absorbed was he in his practice that he didn’t notice the quiet figure who had slipped into the room, watching him intently from the shadows. It wasn’t until he paused, breathless and momentarily still, that he sensed he was no longer alone. His eyes, wide with surprise, met those of the other person, who had been silently observing his every move.