Dalton
Hampton, Virginia
The studio is quiet. Not empty. Not lifeless. Just…waiting.
The faint scent of wood cleaner hangs in the air, and the mirrored wall reflects back long stretches of open floor, pale and undisturbed. It’s the kind of place that holds movement even when no one’s in it, like it remembers.
I’d had her wait in the car while I checked it out first. Clear the space. Check the exits. Make sure nothing feels off. It hadn’t taken long. Everything was exactly the way it should be.
Still, when I open the door and gesture her inside, I don’t miss the way her shoulders loosen just slightly as she steps past me. Like some part of her needed confirmation before she could let herself breathe.
“You’re good,” I tell her quietly.
She nods, already scanning the room in a way that tells me she’s not as relaxed as she wants me to think.
“I’m going to change,” she says, glancing toward the back.
“Take your time.”
She hesitates for half a second, like she’s going to say something else. Then she doesn’t, and instead she disappears down the hallway.
I stand there for a moment longer than I should, listening to the quiet settle back in around me.
Then I move. There’s a bench along the wall, close enough to the floor that I can keep an eye on the room without being in the middle of it.
I drop into it, pulling the book I brought out of my jacket pocket more out of habit than intention.
I open the book, letting my gaze drop to the page. And wait. A few minutes pass. Maybe five.
I look up without thinking and forget how to breathe for a second.
She walks out wearing a deep red leotard that ties around her neck, tying the thin strings of her matching short wrap skirt as she walks. She’s barefoot, her tights stopping just below her calves.
It shouldn’t be that distracting but it is.
The fabric hugs her in a way that makes it very clear that whatever strength she carries isn’t just surface level. There’s control in the way she moves, even now, crossing the floor toward the mirrors like she belongs here in a way I don’t think she feels anywhere else.
Her hair is pulled into a tight, perfect bun, every loose strand from earlier gone.
She doesn’t look at me right away.
Just lowers herself to the floor with practiced ease, legs folding beneath her as she reaches into her bag for a pair of pointe shoes.
I glance back down at my book. Because I should give her space, peace, and solace. Three things I’m sure she rarely gets as a mom.Especially considering her current circumstances.
“I’m just going to sit here and read,” I say, mostly so she knows I’m not planning on staring at her for the next two hours. “Take your time though, I have nowhere to be.”
Her hands pause briefly as she ties the ribbons around her ankle. “Is it a good book?” she asks, her voice softer now.
I shrug my shoulders and close the book to be able to show her the cover. “Well I’ve read six pages so far so I’m not really sure, but I figured I’d stay out of your way.”
A small smile touches her mouth, visible in the mirror. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know.” I shift slightly on the bench, forcing my eyes back to the page. “But I know what it’s like to need to do the one thing you love most. The one thing that makes you feel whole again inside.”
There’s a quiet pause. Then she nods, more to herself than to me, and finishes tying the ribbons.
The music starts a moment later. It’s slow.
I read the same line three times without processing a single word. Because the second she starts moving, everything else becomes…irrelevant.
It’s just a stretch. A slow extension of her arms, her body lengthening as she eases into it like she’s reacquainting herself with something she hasn’t touched in too long.
But there’s nothing hesitant about it. Even in the warm-up, there’s precision.
Control. A kind of quiet discipline that demands attention whether you want to give it or not.
And I don’t mean to watch, but I do anyway. At first, it’s just…awareness. Tracking movement. The way she shifts her weight, the way her feet move against the floor, the way every motion seems deliberate, like it has a purpose beyond just exercise.
But then it changes. Somewhere between one stretch and the next.
Because what I start noticing isn’t just the movement.
It’s her.
The strength in it. The control. The way she pushes through discomfort like it’s something she’s used to.
And then, I see it. At first, it doesn’t register. Just lines. Faint, uneven against her skin.
But as she turns, as her back catches the light from a different angle, it becomes clearer.
Scars.
Red.
Raised.
Angry in a way that hasn’t faded with time.
They cut down the length of her back, disappearing beneath the line of the leotard at the top and again at the bottom, like I’m only seeing pieces of something much bigger.
My grip tightens slightly around the book.
I feel something low and sharp settle in my chest. I don’t need her to explain to know where it probably came from. The thought alone is enough to make the edges of my vision go black..
But she just keeps moving. Like they’re not there.
Like they don’t matter. And that—more than anything—makes it worse because it means she’s used to it.
She lives with them, lets the scars be seen like they don’t get to stop her from doing what she loves.
But the pain she had to endure. The torture.
The fear. My stomach churns and the dinner we just ate threatens to make its way back up.
I don’t look back at the book after that. I can’t. Not when every part of my attention is locked on her.
The music shifts, building into something stronger, faster, and she follows it without hesitation. Turns that should look effortless but aren’t. Movements that demand strength most people don’t have.
She doesn’t falter. Not once. Even when her breathing picks up. Even when sweat starts to gather along her spine, catching in the lines of scars that shouldn’t be there.
Time passes without me noticing. Minutes. Then longer. At some point, she stops warming up and starts dancing. Really dancing.
And whatever distance she’d been holding onto when we first walked in, it’s gone.
There’s something raw in it now. Unfiltered. Like she’s not thinking anymore, just feeling her way through it. Through whatever’s been sitting in her head for weeks. Through whatever she hasn’t said out loud.
I sit there, completely still, the forgotten book resting loosely in my hands, and realize somewhere along the way that I’m not just watching anymore.
I’m…caught. In it. In her. In the way she moves like she’s trying to outrun something she can’t quite escape.
And I don’t look away. Not once.
By the time she finally stops, it’s abrupt. To me anyway. Like whatever thread she was holding onto snapped, ripping me from the trance she put me in.
Her chest is rising and falling hard, sweat clinging to her skin, her legs trembling slightly as she lowers out of the final movement.
For a second, she just stands there.
Then she laughs. Soft. Breathless. Real.
And it’s the first time I’ve seen her look completely unguarded since I met her.
She turns toward me, wiping at her forehead with the back of her hand, her smile still there.
“I needed that,” she says, her voice a little rough from exertion. “Thank you for coming with me.”
I nod slowly, setting the book down beside me. “You did,” I say, quieter than I mean to. I clear my throat and say, a little louder, “You’re welcome. I’ll come with you whenever you want.”
She steps closer, still catching her breath, the energy from the last two hours still clinging to her in a way that makes the space feel smaller and her more alive. Then she looks back into the mirror, like she sees something about herself that is different.
I almost don’t say anything else. Almost let it stay like this.
But as she turns toward the mirror, her back becomes visible again and I can’t stay quiet. Not when I know someone hurt her. Not when I know they took their time, dragged it out, made the pain last. “Ivy,” I say.
She looks up at me, catching my eyes on the mirror, something in my tone catching her attention. Her smile fades almost immediately and I hate myself for taking any joy from her. “Yeah?” She delicately wipes sweat off her brow, tilting her head to study me.
I hesitate because I already know this is going to change something.
Standing up, I make my way over to her to where she’s studying me in the mirror. I stop less than a foot from her. Close enough to pull her tiny body into my own, but I don’t. Instead I gently run my fingers along the largest scar. She shivers, slightly leaning into my touch. “What happened?”