2. Twirls and Grace
Why is it that I can dance for almost 3 hours straight without complaining, but standing in a line for five minutes just to order a cup of coffee makes me want to give up on life?
I shifted my weight from one foot to the other, sighing as the café line inched forward at a painfully slow pace. My muscles were sore from practice, my hair was a mess from rushing here.
And guess what? All for an iced coffee.
Not like I regretted it, Coffee isn't a want its a damn need.
After dancing for about 3 hours, Madame Dubois gave us a break for 30 minutes. So I had to head back again to the studio, again.
As I finally reached the counter, the barista gave me a sweet smile as I was a regular.
"The usual." I say flashing her a smile. The smell of freshly brewed coffee filled the air, mixing with the faint hum of chatter and the distant sound of the barista steaming milk.
I glanced around while waiting, watching people come and go. Some students were working in their laptops, a couple arguing in hushed tones in the corner. I was lost in my own thoughts, when-
"Ms. Fontaine, your order."
"Oh! Right, sorry." I hurried forward and grabbed my drink, wrapping my hands around the cold cup.
The first sip was pure magic sweet, icy, and exactly what I needed to survive the rest of the day.
I stepped outside, the cool air a sharp contrast to the warmth of the café. I took another sip of my iced coffee, sighing in relief. Worth it.
I glanced at my phone, it was 6:47 PM. I still had 13 minutes to spare which meant two things. I could be the responsible ballerina I am get back early, or maybe I could take the long way back and enjoy my life.
The second options sounds better.
I started walking, blending among the chaos going around. New York always had this strange kind of energy, busy, loud, alive. It was easy to get lost in it, to blend into the crowd and just exist for a while without thinking too much.
It had a way of making you feel both tiny and limitless at the same time. Back in Paris, everything felt familiar, predictable. But here? Every street felt like a new adventure.
I glanced at small shops, flower stands, musicians playing for by the people passing by and an elderly woman who was selling handmade bracelets.
Everything felt normal. Just another day.
Soon, I reached the ballet studio, a building between the towering skyscrapers. The moment I stepped inside, the scent of wood polish and faint traces of lavender hit me, a smell I'd come to associate with long hours of practice and sore muscles.
"Amara!"
I turned just in time to see Clara rushing towards me, her blonde hair bouncing in a high ponytail. My best friend, my dance partner, the person who made even the most exhausting rehearsals bearable.
"You're late." she accused, narrowing her eyes playfully.
"Well if you consider roaming through the streets of NYC, sipping iced coffee and enjoying life," I held up my iced coffee. "it's worth it."
"It sure is, but guess what? Madame Dubois has been looking for you." she said, "Something about a new routine."
I groaned. "What now?"
"Not sure, but you know she loves torturing you." she said with a smirk.
"Of course, she does." I said sipping my coffee.
Madame Dubois was our instructor, a legend in the ballet world and terrifying when she wanted to be. I loved her, but she pushed us to our limits every single time.
And of course being the 'étoile' of ballet meant that people would always have high expectations from me.
(étoile- Star)
Every move, every performance, every rehearsal had to be perfect. Not just good. Not just impressive. It should be Flawless.
"Come on," Clara grabbed my hand, dragging me to the practice room. "Before she hunts you down."
I changed back into my into leotards and tutus, the soft fabric hugging my form as I adjusted the delicate straps.
Madame Dubois' sharp voice cut through the air before we even stepped foot in the practice hall.
"Rapide! You are not here to waste time!"
("Quick!")
Clara and I exchanged a quick glance as we tried to suppress a smile, no matter how intense practice could be, with her it always fun. She made it feel like home.
"Positions!" Madame Dubois commanded, clapping her hands. "Amara, front and center."
I swallowed, stepping forward, feeling every pair of eyes on me. Being the étoile meant carrying the weight of the performance on my shoulders. The expectations. The pressure.
I lifted my chin, pushing those thoughts away.
Ballet wasn't just about movement, it was about telling a story, about emotion, about becoming one with the music.
The first few notes of the piano drifted through the studio, soft yet commanding. My body moved before my mind could think- plié, tendu, arabesque. Every step felt familiar, yet never easy.
Madame Dubois watched closely, her sharp gaze following my every move. I knew she was looking for perfection.
"Arms softer, Amara. Precision, not force!"
I adjusted instantly, letting my movements flow with more grace, suppressing the burn in my muscles.
"Good."
A rare word of approval.
I caught Clara's proud little smile in the mirror, but I barely had a second to react before Madame Dubois clapped again.
"Now, again! From the top!"
I exhaled and started over, my body already aching, but this is ballet. This is my world.
The music started again, and I let out a breath.
My muscles ached, but I pushed through. Ballet is pain disguised as elegance. You could be dying inside, but on the outside, you had to look like a feather floating in the wind.
I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror posture straight, arms lifted just so, expression serene. Effortless. At least, that's what it was supposed to look like.
In reality? My legs felt like jelly, my toes were screaming for mercy, and I was sure that if I don't trip and embarrass myself in the next five minutes then it'd be a miracle.
"Again!" her voice snapped me out of my thoughts.
I bit back a groan. How did this woman never get tired?
"Perfection is not a moment, it is a habit!" she declared.
I wanted to tell her that perfection also required a break, preferably one involving pastries and maybe a nap.
Instead, I took a deep breath and got back into position.
The music filled the studio, wrapping around me like a familiar embrace. My body moved on instinct, flowing with each note.
I lifted my leg into an arabesque, arms light, fingers soft, making every movement look effortless even though my muscles burned.
Taking a deep breath, I spun into a pirouette, as the room blurred around me. One, two, three turns and then a controlled stop. My foot barely made a sound as I landed, extending my other leg behind me with careful grace.
The music picked up, demanding more. I pushed off the floor into a grand jeté, leaping as high as I could, legs stretching mid-air. For a second, I felt weightless, like I was flying.
Then came the landing. I touched the floor softly, chest lifted, arms shaping the final pose. My breaths were steady, but my heart pounded from the effort.
──────
After practice, I walked off the floor, breathing heavily as the other dancers chatted and laughed, some heading to the changing rooms while others stayed to stretch. Clara caught up to me, looking just as drained but still with that bright spark in her eyes.
"Also I forgot to tell you about this!" she beamed with excitement.
"Another date?" I smirked.
"Something like that, but you are not gonna believe this cause he actually knows how to pronounce arabesque."
"Isn't it easy to pronounce it though?" I asked raising my eyebrows.
"Easy for us to say but not for the men I ever talked to." she said rolling her eyes.
"Yeah, right." I teased, "If we consider talking to 5 men your whole life then duh of course."
"But it sure is a good start." she winked, with a proud smile on her face.
"What's his name?"
"Logan Carter." she whispered as if she was sharing a secret, well technically speaking she was, considering how many encounters she even had with men, "He's this super charming guy who works in that fancy art gallery downtown. I met him at the opening last week."
"An art guy? How fitting for you."
She grinned, tossing her hair over her shoulder. "I know, right? It's like the universe finally decided to align something in my favor."
"So, is this just a Clara being Clara situation, or do you actually like this guy?" I teased.
"Too soon to tell, but" she smirked, "it sure is fun finding out."
Clara was the definition of hopeless romantic, always searching for those cute moments. And honestly?
That did sound like something straight out of 2 AM scenario I might have imagined a few days back.
Clara sure is pretty with her blonde hair that always seemed effortlessly perfect, blue eyes that sparkled whenever she was excited.
Hell, she would still look pretty even when she was exhausted after hours of practice, hair messy and cheeks flushed.
Some people just had that effortless beauty, and Clara was definitely one of them.
"Well. I'll be here living man-free life." I said, slinging my bag over my shoulder.
She smirked. "Famous last words."
I sighed, shaking my head as we stepped outside the studio. The crisp evening air felt refreshing against my skin after the hours spent under the bright studio lights.
"You say that now but," she said linking her arm through mine, "I am pretty sure a guy would sweep you off the floor like, literally considering our profession."
"If anyone tries that, they better have the strength to keep up, because I'm not making it easy." I said.
"Of fucking course girl! Can't expect any less from you." she said with excitement, as if she was more thrilled with the idea of me getting a man.
We walked down the street, the city buzzing around us cars honking, people chatting, the smell of freshly baked bread drifting from a nearby café.
"Anyways," Clara continued, "I have a date with Logan this weekend."
"Oh?" I smirked. "Where's he taking you?"
"A cute rooftop restaurant. Romantic lighting, amazing view of the city. I'd say very 'aesthetic'."
"Sounds nice." I hummed. "Just make sure he's not one of those guys who spends the whole date talking about himself."
"I am hurt, darling." she dramatically placed her arm on her chest, "Do you think I am the type of woman who tolerates a fucking narcissist? If he even dares to bore me, I'll simply excuse myself and leave him wondering where it all went wrong."
I chuckle, "Sounds terrifying."
We reached the subway station, where we'd part ways for the night. Clara turned to me, "You sure you don't want to come with me? We could grab dinner."
"Sounds tempting, but I'd rather go home collapse on my bed and sleep forever." I said with a shrug.
She pouted but didn't push. "Alright. Get some rest. See you tomorrow?"
"Of course."
She gave me one last wave before heading down the stairs. I watched her go, then pulled my hoodie tighter around me as I continued to walk to my apartment.
I walked through the familiar streets, the city lights flickering above me. The night air was crisp, and the hum of soft music surrounded me.
By the time I reached my apartment, exhaustion settled deep in my bones. I dropped my bag by the door, kicked off my shoes, and sighed as I stretched my sore muscles.
After a quick hot shower that felt like a warm hug from the universe, I threw on my comfiest pajamas, an old oversized T-shirt and sweatpants, and then I made myself a simple dinner. Pasta.
And then, of course, came the part of the day which I enjoyed the most. Journaling.
There was something about journaling that I love the most, its the only place which probably has no expectations from you. A place where all expectations, constant need to be perfect just fade away.
No mirrors, no music, no eyes watching. Just ink on paper.
It was my space, untouched by anyone else. A place where I didn't have to smile or be graceful or live up to anything.
Just words. Just me.
Flipping open to a fresh page, I twirled my pen between my fingers before pressing it to the paper.
8th July, 2024.
Dear Diary,
Another long day, another day of expectations, another day of putting a smile on my face. Ballet has always been an escape for me, and sometimes exhaustion. But today, it lied somewhere between both of them.
Madame Dubois pushed us harder, I could see the exhaustion in everyone's eyes, but no one dared to complain. Being the étoile means there's no room for anything less than perfect.
And honestly? I love it. Even when my body aches.
Clara thinks I need romance in my life. I think I need a nap.
Still, it would be nice to have someone to lean on. Someone who understands the pressure, the exhaustion, the constant push for perfection. Someone who could help me understand the world better.
I strike of my last sentence aggressively. Instead, I wrote,
I should really do my laundry.
-Amara 3