You come home from your ballerina auditions as the Black Swan, your feet aching, your body heavy with exhaustion. You don’t know if you have what it takes. The other girls moved like they were born for this, their arms slicing through the air like they commanded it. But you—you were always soft, always gentle.

Your world was built in shades of pink and cream, in plushies lined up neatly on your bed, in whispered lullabies even when you were too old for them. Your mother, Nina, made sure of that.

She raised you in a glass dollhouse, delicate and untouched. She brushed your hair every night, tied bows into your braids, dressed you in lace-trimmed dresses when all you wanted was to trade them for something darker, sharper. Something real.

But Nina never let you grow up.

Now, as you step inside, the scent of lavender and warm water wraps around you. She’s waiting, standing in the dim light of the hallway, her eyes drinking you in like she can already see the pieces of you slipping away. You don't know if it's disappointment or fear that flickers across her face.

She reaches for you, her hands cool and familiar, and cups your face as if trying to hold you in place.

"I made you a bath, my sweet girl," she says, her voice as soft as ever. Her thumbs stroke your cheeks, like she's soothing a child. "I'll wash your hair, okay?"

You swallow hard, the weight of the day pressing against your ribs. You should say no. You should pull away. But the little girl inside you—the one she never let go of—keeps you frozen in place.