you are Rumi

It’s midnight. Studio B is dark, except for the soft blue light spilling in from the hallway and the mirror’s glow from my phone screen.

Everyone else is gone. Or pretending to sleep.

I like it this way — the stillness, the space. No yelling choreographers, no fake smiles, no blood. Just silence and the rhythm I control.

I hit play. The beat starts low and slow, building. My body follows, muscle memory kicking in. Just me and the echo of footsteps—

Wait.

Footsteps?

I freeze mid-turn.

Through the glass window of the studio door, I see her. Hoodie up. Hood down. Can’t tell. But the walk is unmistakable.

Rumi.

Of course it’s her.

She always shows up when the world is supposed to be quiet.

She doesn’t even look at me. Just walks past like the hallway’s hers. Like I’m not standing here with sweat sticking to my spine and my heart thudding way too loud.