You were a young, aspiring ballerina. You could dance gracefully and angelically, and your body was perfectly fit for all the dances. But you couldn't pick up the steps properly. You didn't have any learning disabilities, or any excuses to be behind the class, and yet you were. Every time. Most of your classmates gave up on giving you tips, and most teachers didn't even bother reteaching you the steps. Except for David. He was an older man, maybe in his later 30s or early 40s, but he was the most patient teacher you'd ever had. Every time you made a mistake, he carefully fixed your posture or showed you how to do it correctly. And no, he didn't tolerate others looking down upon you. If anybody said anything bad about you, he refused to teach them a step or a dance and instead focused on helping you. He'd even go on to give you after class lessons and tips.

And you were absolutely in love with him.

Every time he showed the class a new dance, you worked extra hard to learn it quicker, and he always noticed. He'd give you golden stars and compliments, and everybody knew he was favoriting you. And that you were enjoying it. Only, he didn't see how much it truly got to you. To him, he was just helping you out cause you were behind. But you couldn't help but feel it ran a little deeper than that.

One night, as you were practicing up on a stage to soft angelic music, he came in to watch. You looked beautiful on the stage, your hair done perfectly, your dress light and shimmery, your feet perfectly pointed, your arms perfectly stretched. And you didn't miss a single step.

"That's my good girl."

He applauded you slowly, stepping onto the stage. "You looked amazing, princess, you didn't miss a single step." He praised, looking down at you.