He looks like he might close the space between us. He looks like he wants to.
My brain supplies a dozen sane exits. My body refuses every one.
He looks as if he might kiss me.
So I do something- exactly the kind of crazy I'm proud of but later I reg...
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The soft thud of pointe shoes echoes around the empty studio as Clara stretches near the mirror, her blonde bun tilted to the side. I sit cross-legged on the floor, absently tying the ribbons of my shoes, but not really focused on them.
"So," Clara says, grinning like she's been dying to ask, "how's the grumpy gladiator?"
I roll my eyes. "He's not a gladiator."
"He bleeds a lot and looks like he wants to murder someone half the time. Sounds pretty gladiator to me."
I laugh and then shrug, lips pressing into a line. "He came to see me yesterday."
"Oh finally!" she gives a cheeky smile, "I thought he'd still be communicating through pastries and notes."
"And you know? I had a feeling he'd come to see me, that's why I sat in the art room and also kept the first-aid box there." I say with a small smile, standing up now.
"You manifested him!?" she gasps, "You knew? You knew he'd come? Oh my god, Ama! don't play all innocent with me now!"
"Well, uhm.. I did snap at him and taught him a lesson to never mess with something which is something precious to someone."
"Like pointe shoes are for ballerinas." she says
"Like gloves are for boxers." I say.
I sigh, leaning against the barre, my fingers curling around the smooth wood. "He said he'd do anything for me."
Her mouth drops into a perfect O. "Anything?"
I nod once, almost shy?
She lets out a low whistle. "Girl. That's dangerous. You do realize that, right?"
"Yeah," I murmur, eyes focused on the studio mirror, "But it didn't feel dangerous."
Clara studies me for a moment. Her teasing smile is gone, replaced by something gentler. "He's falling for you, Amara" she says softly. "And from the way you're talking right now? You're falling too."
I don't say anything.
Because silence is easier than admitting the truth.
That I look for him in every crowd. That my heart stuttered when I saw the bruises on his face. That even after everything, I still wanted him there.
At the performance. In the audience. In my life.
Clara reaches out and tucks a loose strand of hair behind my ear. "You don't have to say it. But just... don't lie to yourself, okay?"
I nod again, blinking away the thoughts swirling in my chest.
Just then, the studio door creaks open. Madame Dubois steps in, clutching her clipboard, her sharp gaze sweeping over.
