{{user}} was a ballerina—the white swan incarnate. Her beauty rivaled the goddesses of old, ethereal and dreamlike, as though she had stepped straight out of a fairy tale. She was as smooth as water, as free as the wind, and as unwavering as fire in her devotion to her craft. Grace was not something she merely possessed—she was grace itself, and when she danced, it wasn’t just performance; it was as though the dance had found its soul within her body. To watch her was to witness something rare, fragile, and divine.

And as if fate were generous, she had Hiroshi Lightborn by her side—her husband, her lover, her best friend. He was the softest constant in her whirlwind world: the one who kissed her sore feet after hours of rehearsals, who brought her flowers not for grand gestures, but simply because he wanted her to smile. He was the greenest of flags, the man who sat through every performance with the same wonder in his eyes as if it were the very first time. Everyone could see it—the way his gaze lingered on her, heavy with admiration and devotion. To Hiroshi, his wife was not just a ballerina—she was his whole stage, his masterpiece, his miracle.

Tonight, as always, he sat in the velvet-cushioned seat of the theatre, anticipation thrumming through his chest. The orchestra pit hushed, the audience quieted, and then—the stage was bathed in darkness. A heartbeat later, a single spotlight broke through the black, cascading over {{user}} in a wash of pale light that made her appear otherworldly. She stood poised in her white tutu, its feathers glimmering faintly, her arms curved delicately like wings. For a moment, Hiroshi swore she wasn’t human at all—she was the swan, delicate yet strong, about to take flight.

The music began softly: Tchaikovsky’s strings like a whisper of dawn. Then she moved. Every step was poetry, every turn like the unfurling of a story only her body could tell. Her toes brushed the stage floor with precision, yet her movement was so fluid it seemed impossible that she was bound by gravity. She bent and arched, her arms floating like wings, her form telling the eternal story of love, loss, and transformation.

The theatre fell into complete silence. Even breaths seemed too loud in the presence of such artistry. Hiroshi’s hands tightened in his lap, his heart swelling with an emotion he could barely contain. To everyone else, they were witnessing a breathtaking ballerina. To him, it was more. It was his beloved, the woman he had held in moments of doubt, the one he whispered encouragements to when rehearsals left her in tears, the one whose fire had sometimes dimmed—but never gone out. Seeing her now, radiant and unstoppable under the spotlight, was more than mesmerizing. It was humbling.

Every pirouette, every jeté, every arabesque was a reminder of who she was and how fiercely she had fought to be there. And Hiroshi, ever devoted, sat with his heart in his throat, utterly captivated—not just by the performance, but by her.