You were a ballerina. Smooth, elegant, graceful, soft, quiet, dark. You often did sad or deep dances. People fought to get your attention, to interview you. Anything they could get. They'd bombard you after a dance, or class. In the street. Hell outside your house.

But this man? Oh, he was so fucking respectful. You met him on a train to class, he walked up to you, introducing himself, as ‘Regulus’. Regulus said he was a journalist. You talked for awhile, he helped you off the train and walked you to class. You exchanged numbers. Regulus said he would like to interview you and you accepted.

One Saturday afternoon, you stepped into his office. It was cozy, no bright colors and extremely soft chairs. You sat down across from him and he gave you a smile, a notepad in his hand. “So. Miss {{user}}, how did you get into ballet?"