4. Pastry attack
Luckily, I woke up on time. Well—technically, a second before my alarm. And honestly? I felt weirdly proud of myself. Like I had somehow tricked my body into being responsible.
Probably just beginner's luck.
I stretched for a moment before finally getting up, folding my sheets, and heading to the bathroom. A splash of cold water to my face, brushing my teeth, and then—the best part—a warm bath.
The kind that melted away every bit of tension from yesterday's rehearsal.
The kind that made me feel human again, instead of a collection of sore muscles and exhaustion.
I let myself enjoy it, the steam curling around me, the warmth soothing my limbs.
For a few peaceful moments, there was nothing but the sound of water.
After taking a shower, I quickly got dressed. Ballet bag check. Coffee- absolute necessity.
By the time I stepped out, the city was already alive.
It was 10:30 AM, and the streets of New York were as chaotic as ever. Cars honking, people rushing, the distant sound of a street performer playing something jazzy on his saxophone. The smell of fresh bagels and coffee from a nearby cart mixed with the less pleasant scent of- well, New York things.
Busy, loud, unpredictable.
I walked to the studio, my pace steady, my mood surprisingly light. For once, I'm actually going to be on time. A miracle, really.
As soon as I stepped inside, I barely had time to set my bag down before I heard Madame Dubois' voice—louder than usual, filled with something rare.
Excitement.
"Mes chéries!" she called out, clapping her hands together. "I have wonderful news!"
(My darlings!)
I glanced at Clara, who looked just as curious as I felt.
"We've been selected for the final showcase!"
The room exploded. Excited gasps, cheers, people hugging. It took a second for it to fully register, but when it did.
Oh. My. God.
We did it. We actually did it.
But then,of fucking course, Sloane had to ruin the moment.
She crossed her arms, tilting her head with that signature smirk. "We really did it?" she said, her tone dripping with doubt.
"Yeah, we did," Clara shot back, tilting her head with a mock sweet smile. "Why? Shocked that your graceful presence wasn't the only reason we made it?
"I just hope some people can keep up," she said, flicking her gaze in my direction before turning away. "Must be nice, huh? Always getting the spotlight handed to you."
I clenched my jaw, but before I could respond, Clara scoffed. "Oh, please, Sloane. You say that Amara hasn't worked her ass off for this."
Sloane just shrugged, her smirk never fading. "I'm just saying that some of us had to earn our place here."
As if I hadn't. As if I hadn't spent years perfecting every move, every step, pushing myself past exhaustion just to be good enough.
But I wasn't about to let her ruin this moment. Not today.
So, I just smiled sweetly. "You're right, Sloane. It must be nice to finally be in a showcase like this." Then, with a little tilt of my head, I added, "Welcome to the big leagues."
Her smirk vanished.
Madame Dubois clapped her hands sharply, her usual stern expression settling back in place. "Enough arguing!" she said, her voice cutting through the tension.
Everyone immediately straightened, including Sloane, who pressed her lips together but said nothing.
"The final showcase is in two weeks," Madame continued, pacing in front of us. "That means no distractions, no unnecessary drama! Only hard work and perfection. Understood?"
A chorus of "Yes, Madame Dubois." echoed through the room.
"Good. Now, positions!" she ordered. "We have a lot of work to do."
And just like that, the excitement was over. It was time to dance.
We moved into position, the room falling into focused silence. The soft strains of the piano filled the air as we began.
First, the warm-ups– stretching, pliés, tendus. Every movement had to be precise, effortless. My muscles protested at first, but I pushed through it, my body falling into rhythm.
Then came the real work.
Madame Dubois didn't go easy on us. Well, she never did. "Higher, Amara" she called as I executed a développé, my leg extending into the air. "You are the étoile, yes? Then dance like one!"
I gritted my teeth and pushed harder, lifting my chin, my movements graceful yet strong. Sweat formed at the nape of my neck, but I didn't stop. None of us did.
Hours passed in a blur of pirouettes, jetés, and endless corrections from Madame Dubois. "Arms softer! Posture! Again!"
By the time we finally stopped, my legs burned. My lungs screamed for air.
As soon as we were dismissed, Clara practically dragged me to the side, her expression already set in full gossip mode.
"Can we talk about how insufferable Sloane is?" she huffed, pulling her hair into a messy bun. "Like, seriously, does she ever take a day off from being the absolute worst?"
I chuckled, still catching my breath. "I think it's her full-time job at this point."
Clara threw her hands in the air. "Right?
! And the way she acts like you don't deserve to be the étoile?
As if you didn't literally work your ass off for this?
" She mimicked Sloane's fake-sweet voice, "'Must be nice, huh?
Always getting the spotlight handed to you.
'" Then she dropped the act and scowled.
"Ugh, I wanted to throw my shoe at her."
"You should totally do it" I smirked, "I'll even start a GoFundMe for your legal fees."
Clara sighed dramatically, "I swear, if she doesn't shut up soon, I'm going to develop a stress-induced eye twitch. It's already starting." She pointed at her face, squinting one eye.
I laughed. "You're ridiculous."
She gasped. "How dare you? I'm being traumatized by that girl's existence, and you call me ridiculous?"
I nudged her playfully. "Fine, fine. You're a victim."
"Thank you," she said, placing a hand over her heart. Then, with a devilish grin, she added, "Well, at least we can agree on one thing."
"What?"
She leaned in conspiratorially. "Sloane totally peaked in high school."
"Of course she did." I rolled my eyes.
"Well, Wanna get coffee together?" Clara asked, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.
I glanced at my phone, checking the time and date.
"Actually... I was already planning to grab a coffee at the café nearby," I said, slinging my bag over my shoulder.
Her eyes lit up. "Oh! Then let's go together!"
"Uhm.. I am going to the café by the bookstore." I hesitated for a second before clarifying, "The Gold Cup Café."
Clara stopped mid-step, eyebrows shooting up. "Wait. You're going to that café?" She narrowed her eyes suspiciously. "The café whose coffee you despise?"
I awkwardly cleared my throat. "Uhm.. yeah."
Her gasp was so dramatic, I almost laughed. "Hold on. Is this a revenge visit?"
I rolled my eyes. "No, Clara."
"Hmm. Then it must be for something special." Her smirk grew. "Spill."
"Look, it's something I need to check, so I really need to get going."
Clara narrowed her eyes, clearly sensing something was off, but to my relief, she didn't push. Instead, she crossed her arms and gave me a knowing look. "Fine. But you owe me details later," she said, pointing a finger at me like a warning.
I forced a small smile. "See you tomorrow?"
She sighed dramatically. "Yeah, yeah. Go handle your urgent business."
We said our goodbyes and parted ways, but as I walked, an annoying little voice in my head nagged at me.
You totally just bailed on Clara. You are such a bad friend ugh!
Shaking off the guilt, I finally reached the café.
The decor? Cute. The ambiance? Nice.. The smell? good. But the coffee?
Overpriced. Garbage.
I still had no idea how this place was so popular. Like, were people just pretending to enjoy their burnt lattes for the aesthetic? Did they lose their taste buds at some point? Was I the only one who saw the overpriced truth?
But the chocolate pastry they sold here? Absolute heaven. Probably the only good thing about this café. Rich, soft, and perfectly sweet and honestly? It was the reason I even stepped foot in this place.
So, obviously, I ordered one. Priorities.
And then- boom!
One second, I had my delicious pastry in my hands, and the next, I collided straight into someone.
My eyes widened in horror as I watched my perfect, beautiful chocolate pastry smack right into his shirt.
I sucked in a breath.
Tall. Dark hair. Gray eyes. A sharp, chiseled face with a few fresh cuts, like he'd just walked out of a fight. His broad shoulders tensed as he slowly looked down at the mess on his shirt, then up at me.
His expression? Pure annoyance.
Then realisation hit me. It was the same guy–
"It's you?" I scoffed, folding my arms. "Sherlock!"
He blinked, clearly unimpressed. "Huh?"
"You literally bumped into me the other day. Maybe try watching where you're going!" I snapped.
His jaw clenched, irritation flashing in his eyes. "And maybe you should stop acting like it's my life's mission to run into you."
I huffed. "Well, you're doing a damn good job at it."
He exhaled sharply, pinching the bridge of his nose as if I was testing the last of his patience. "Look, I don't have time for this."
"Yeah? Neither do I." I retorted.
He glanced down at the chocolate pastry smeared across his shirt. "Unbelievable." he muttered under his breath and walked away.
My chocolate pastry? Gone.
Just like that. Ugh.
Could this day get any worse?
The final showcase was in two weeks. Two. The pressure was already settling in. Then there was the way I had to bail on Clara, which still made me feel guilty. And of course, Sloane being her usual annoying self.
And now..?
Now, my precious chocolate pastry my one source of comfort was now smeared across random guy's shirt.
What a beautiful day, indeed.
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11th July, 2024
Dear diary,
Today was tragic. A certified disaster. A day straight out of a soap opera, minus the dramatic background music.
Okay, maybe I'm being a little dramatic. But hear me out.
I woke up early. Yay, me. That's the only good thing, though. Because after that? Downhill. Rapidly.
Oh! I totally forgot to mention our ballet group got selected for the Final Showcase! It's in two weeks. Which means practice was brutal. Obviously. Madame Dubois was on a mission to destroy us. I love ballet, I really do, but my legs? They hate me right now.
And then there's Sloane. Sloane being... well, Sloane. A jealous brat. She's still salty because I'm better than her at ballet, at life, at everything, really. Not my fault she lacks main character energy.
Oh, and I totally bailed on Clara today. I know, bad friend move. But I really needed some alone time. She'll understand. Probably. Hopefully.