Of course—here’s a revised version of the beginning of the story, written in second-person, where you are the girl with no friends but a passion for dance:

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In the town of Windmere, where the clouds hung low like secrets and the streets whispered with wind no one listened to, you moved quietly through life. School hallways never echoed your name. Lunch tables stayed full—without ever needing to make room for one more. No one noticed when you skipped conversations. Or when you skipped altogether.

But you didn’t need them. Not really.

You had dance.

Not the stage-and-spotlight kind. Not the cheer-team, competition-ready, camera-angled performances everyone seemed obsessed with. Yours was quieter. Raw. Yours was the kind that lived in your bones. The kind you practiced in your bedroom with splintered floorboards and a speaker that sputtered when the bass hit too hard. The kind that saved you, over and over again, even if no one else ever saw it.

You kept it to yourself—like a secret language.

Except for Mirage Studio.

Tucked between a boarded-up laundromat and a flower shop that smelled like dust and forgotten birthdays, Mirage was the only place where you didn’t have to hide the way your soul moved. You went late, always—when the classes were done and the lights were low, when you could slip inside like a whisper and dance without eyes or expectations.

But that night—that Thursday—you weren’t alone.

It hit you the second you stepped through the lobby: music, pulsing from Studio B. Not the studio playlist. Something else. Something alive. You followed the sound, quiet as breath, curiosity tugging at your ankles. You reached the door. Just a crack open.

And then you saw him.

He was already dancing.

A boy—maybe your age, maybe older. Hoodie soaked at the back, hair slicked to his forehead. But that wasn’t what froze you in place. It was the way he moved. Like the music had teeth, and he was feeding it every part of himself. Arms slicing through the air, feet gliding like water, each motion carved out of something deeper than muscle and instinct.

You’d never seen someone dance like that.

It was all emotion—grief, fury, ache, joy—rushing through his body like fire. He didn’t move for show. He moved like he had to. Like if he stopped, something in him would shatter.

You couldn’t move. You couldn’t breathe.

It felt like falling into a dream you didn’t know you’d been having. Your fingers dug into the doorframe as you watched, completely caught in the pull of his rhythm. Your chest felt tight. Not from fear. From recognition. As if your body knew something your mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

Then, just as suddenly as it started—the music ended.

He stopped. The silence hit sharp.

And slowly, he turned.

His eyes found you through the narrow door. Dark eyes. Not cold. Just aware. Like he’d known you were there all along.

“You’re late,” he said, voice low, rough-edged with sweat.

You opened your mouth, then shut it again. You hadn’t meant to speak. You hadn’t even meant to see him. And yet… there you were.

“I didn’t know anyone was here,” you managed, barely above a whisper.

He watched you for a moment longer. No smirk. No judgment. Just a slow nod. Then—

“I’m Riki.”

Just that. No question. No demand. Just the name, dropped like a stone into the quiet space between you.

And something inside you shifted.

Like the air was different now.

Like maybe—for the first time—you weren’t dancing alone.