Sarada stared blankly out the window, watching as affluent suburbs morphed into city streets and high-rise buildings. The speakers chimed, announcing each stop as commuters bustled on and off the train.
She sipped at her French pressed coffee as she ruminated over the idea of joining her parents at the beach house her mother mentioned. It sounded like it could be relaxing, laying out in the warm sand, listening to the ocean waves while soaking up the sun's rays.
But the fear of being rejected by any and all of her invited guests had Sarada imagining herself sitting on the beach all by her lonesome. Maybe that was for the best though, that way no one would see her in a bathing suit.
Her hand squeezed the strap of her duffle tighter as her mind tortured her with reminders that she had too many midnight snacks and not enough friends. Both of which seemed to make the beach sound less appealing.
Maybe she should just pass on the trip altogether. Save herself the sunburn and the ego crush.
Sarada lifted her head at the sound of her stop being announced. With a few mumbled pardons, she weaved through the crowd toward the train doors as they slid open.
When she arrived at the ballet studio, it was still well before their rehearsal call time. Sarada didn't say good morning when she passed by her colleagues. But neither did they. Instead, she kept to herself and polished off the last of her coffee.
Their shared locker area offered a small space for each dancer to keep their bags and a few essential items, a change of shoes and some outerwear. There were a few vanity stations with brightly lit mirrors and a dressing room with a thick beige curtain for privacy. Though many of the dancers changed in front of each other with little thought, Sarada always preferred to change in the dressing room.
The last thing she needed was the judgmental eyes of her colleagues on her body.
With a swipe of her hand, she pulled the curtain closed and dropped her duffle on the small bench inside the dressing room. After kicking off her shoes and stripping off her oversized sweater, Sarada sat down to roll a pair of pale pink tights up the length of her legs. She then pulled on a long-sleeved black leotard, praying the color would look slimming.
Instead, it felt too small.
A disgusted scowl marred her lips as she tugged uncomfortably at the tight fabric.
She couldn't tell if the feeling stemmed from her overeating the night before or her mother's comment that morning, but she felt like she was practically bulging out of her leotard. She turned to the side, inspecting the slope of her stomach in the full-length mirror mounted on the wall, and wondered what she could do to conceal her bloat.
Sarada reached down and fished a short, sheer skirt from her duffle. She tied it around her waist and sighed with marginal relief. It would have to do for today. She completed her look with a pair of black leg warmers before exiting the dressing room.
After depositing her duffle in one of the white, metal lockers, Sarada snuck over to one of the vanity stations to check her hair one last time before stepping out into the studio.
Tall windows allowed the morning light to flood the rehearsal space. Her gaze avoided both her peers and her own reflection as she padded across the pale wood floors, finding a seat in the back corner of the room to begin her warm-up stretches.
As the other dancers arrived, they filled the large room with their quiet chatter. No one bothered to include her in their conversation. But it was what she expected. It was what she was used to.
Sarada leaned forward further in her stretch, trying to concentrate on the pull in her muscles or the crown molding on the ceiling or a weird speckle on the floor, really anything other than her colleagues' conversations. She couldn't hear them well enough to discern what they were saying, but a nagging feeling in the back of her brain kept whispering that they were talking about her.
They can tell she overate last night. They can tell she feels sluggish and gross. They worry her subpar performance will make everyone look bad.
The air began to feel thin, like she could barely take a full breath. But maybe that was her subconscious need to suck her stomach.
Sarada tried so hard to put on this facade of a poised ballerina, this projection of perfection in front of everyone, but it was so terribly exhausting.
As mistress Moegi came in, clapping to gain their attention and begin their warm-up exercises, Sarada couldn't help but wonder if her colleagues all recognized what an undeserving fraud she really was.
The studio was long emptied by the time the sun set, casting its warm glow into the whitewashed studio. Even after a full day of rehearsal, Sarada remained anchored at the barre. Her lips softly whispered eight counts as classical music played on the speaker.
Her knees bent slowly, meticulously with each plié, tendu, and rond de jambe. Her arms gently floated between positions, light as a feather.
Toes pointed, back straight, chin lifted.
Sarada ran through her mental checklist of perfect form, despite her body committing the feeling to muscle memory long ago. There was a comfort in the repetitive nature of each exercise. Of counting to eight over and over. Of the delicate and deliberate movements her body made.
Everything in ballet was about control.
Being in control of her emotions and her actions were essential to achieving her dream of becoming a prima ballerina.
Sarada could feel her knees trembling as she dipped low in her grand plié. Her muscles were beginning to ache with fatigue. But she refused to stop, refused to give herself any breaks.
She was already in third position, just a few more rounds. She'd work her way through fourth and fifth, and then she could be done.
But then again, maybe she should spend some time working on her turns. Her fouettés could be sharper.
Her sore feet tensed in protest, but her dark eyes were determined and her expression was stern. As she ran through her pliés in fourth position, Sarada reminded herself of the way she felt this morning when she woke or when she put on her leotard.
She reminded herself she deserved this pain.
Every time Sarada found herself overwhelmed by unwelcomed emotions, she sought the comfort of food. But prima ballerinas don't eat like that.
Prima ballerinas don't lose control like that.
Her body grew tired from the excessive exertion, but she had to get rid of that stupid pie she ate. If she could just burn enough calories, that would basically cancel it out, and then she could stop feeling so disgusted with herself.
"What are you thinking about?"
Sarada jolted, startled from her self-reprimanding thoughts by the unexpected question.
Her head instinctively whipped toward the sound of the voice, only to find an unfamiliar young man leaning against the door frame. His arms were crossed over his broad chest as he stared directly at her.
Dark eyes blinked at him with evident confusion. How did she not notice him in the mirror? How long had he been standing there? Who even was he? A million questions competed for priority in Sarada's brain, but all she heard herself say was, "What?"
He stood up straight at her acknowledgment and took a step forward into the room. "Before your movements were so precise and graceful, but then you fell off the count like you became distracted. So I was asking what you were thinking about?"
Clearly, he had been standing there for some time. Her brow furrowed, not sure how to feel about him watching her, despite his kind words.
"You're not supposed to be here," she accused, even though his posture and his invasive question about her thoughts seemed far too casual for an intruder.
"I was just stopping by to check out the studio, I honestly didn't expect anyone else to be here," he said as he sauntered across the room towards her. Sarada gripped the barre tighter to steady herself. The closer he got the more his curious blue gaze unnerved her. "Do you always rehearse this late?"
"Who are you?" she countered, dark brows pinched together.
His smile widened like the question alone was humorous. Her eyes narrowed, annoyed that he was acting like she should already know.
"Are you not allowed to rehearse this late? Is that why you're dodging my question?"
"What? No!" Sarada gasped, though she actually didn't know if she wasn't allowed to be here. She never really asked.
Her breath suddenly grew shallow as he inched closer, invading her personal space. From this distance, she couldn't help but notice he was rather… pretty, particularly for a man. His mess of blonde hair looked soft to the touch, his eyelashes were long, and his eyes were a brilliant shade of blue.
"It's okay, I can keep your secret," he whispered.
Her lips parted to reply, but lost in her observation, Sarada forgot what they were talking about. Her mind was distracted, locked in his gaze.
It was definitely the exhaustion from excessive rehearsal (and nothing else!) that caused Sarada's legs to tremble. She thought her knees might give out and she would embarrassingly collapse in front of this handsome stranger.
But he seemed to notice her struggle because his hands reached out to steady her.
He was a dancer, Sarada immediately concluded. She could tell simply by the way he placed his hands on her waist. Firm yet gentle, light yet supportive.
But what robbed her of her ability to speak was the way his warm presence seemed to affect her. The way his persistent gaze made something odd flutter in her chest.
She wasn't really a fan of pas de deux for many reasons, not the least of which was feeling comfortable enough to allow someone to touch her, let alone rely on her. But suddenly she found herself entertaining the possibility of dancing with this stranger.
They stood there for a moment, silently assessing the other.
The longer Sarada stared up at him the more it seemed the soft smile he wore on his lips was a clever mask, a distraction from the deeper emotion swirling in his blue depths.
"Are you okay?" she heard herself asking.
He seemed caught off guard by the question, his head rearing back slightly. "I think I'm the one who should be asking you that," he replied with a light laugh that seemed to lack any genuine amusement.
She expected a deflection from him. The real mystery was why she even felt compelled to ask.
His hands fell from her waist as he finally averted his gaze. Sarada found herself regretting the question, simply for the way it seemed to make him want to distance himself from her.
"I, uh…" he mumbled as he ran his fingers through his blonde hair. He hesitated with his next words, and Sarada found herself curiously leaning closer.
"Don't overdo it." When his smile returned to his lips, Sarada was struck with the feeling that that wasn't what he wanted to say.
"I know," she told him with a nod. "I actually need to go soon."
When she glanced pointedly at the door, he took that as his cue. "Oh, yeah, I should probably head out too."
But despite saying that, he lingered for a second longer like he might have more to say.
"Never mind," he mumbled with a shake of his head. Sarada's gaze followed him out the door, wondering if she should have asked him what he was thinking about.
Or actually, she should have asked him his name.