AMBLING DOWN THE STEPS, THE FIRST THING THAT GREETS ME IS THE FAINT SMELL OF ALCOHOL. Overbearing to the point that I hold my breath as I push open the windows to let the heavy scent dissipate. The wooden floors are littered with empty beer cans, half-empty alcohol bottles, and torn-up papers. I feel my mind go blank when I notice the glass table. Stubs of cigarettes in a bowl and leftovers of a powdery mess. My heart is pounding, and I lean on the wall to support myself, swallowing the urge to empty my stomach.

Stumbling, I kneel down, eyes skimming on the several pieces of paper scattered. Searching, I find that it's a termination letter, and it has never been a secret that my father works under Trixie's father. I clench my knuckles, gnawing on the side of my cheek, knowing that this must be my fault. She's getting back at me, but she's going too far. And yet, there's nothing that I can possibly do about it or fix it. My father is blacked-out on the sofa with a permanent frown etched on his features. When I notice a stray tear fall from the corner of his eye, he hastily wipes it and shifts positions. "I'm sorry I let you down, Gracie. I'm a terrible father." He slurs incoherently under his breath, and it takes every last bit of me from yelling at him because he's doing his very best. I know that he's doing his best.

Slowly I back away, slipping up the stairs to grab my laptop and head back down. Placing my laptop on the counter, I prepare an avocado toast with a sunny-side-up on top. After getting my breakfast, I slump down on a bar chair. My fingers tap the marble counter, waiting for the load-up screen. And despite how unhappy my father would be if he found out I was searching for side jobs, I can't help but worry. Browsing through hiring careers, my eyes linger on a few in pet care and waitressing. I decide to send in my resume application, hoping that I get a callback.

Closing down the browser, I type in the website I have been dreading about. My hands are sweaty, shaking, and I feel like I might go into cardiac arrest at any moment. Although the applications have only been open for less than a month, I'm terrified to think I might get rejected. I continuously find myself religiously checking every week. It has become part of my routine. And relief fills me when I see the Julliard application that is still in progress. But it's eating me alive in anticipation.

Exhaling, I don't realize I'm holding my breath. I shut my laptop, scrambling out of my chair to wash up my dishes. After doing so, I peek a glance at my father and begin cleaning up the mess. Tossing it into a black garbage bag, I hang it on the door handle, reminding myself to take it out later.

I hum, ascending the stairs as I change into a pair of grey sweatpants and a matching sweater. Throwing on a warm overcoat, I pack a change of clothes, extra pointe shoes, and a water bottle into the gym bag. Slipping it over my shoulders, my determination swells, and I promise myself that I won't stop practicing until I'm hunching over hurling my guts.

Pulling on my UGG's, I turn to take a wary glance at the unmoving figure once more and stumble out the door, praying that everything will be okay.

MY BOOTS CRUNCH BENEATH FALLEN LEAVES, FLINCHING WHEN A RIDICULOUSLY COLD GUSH OF AIR THRASHES AGAINST ME. I must look out of place, especially with my prepared winter attire. Snuggling closer to my coat, I let out an airy breath to heat my palms. Usually, I take the bus, but I decided on walking instead. I cross the street toward the dance studio, divided by the insane morning traffic. When I enter, a rush of warmth engulfs me and the welcoming voice chirps happily, "Kalea, hey! How're you doing? How's your weekend going so far?"

"Hey, Angela! Peachy morning and a decent weekend. Nothing too exciting. How's the pregnancy going?" I asked nonchalantly, making my way to the reception table to sign in for the day.

She slaps her pen down, "Don't even get me started. If I knew I'd throw up every morning, have crazy mood swings, and have my back aching from this damned baby, I might have changed my mind," rambled Angela. "I was watching a scary movie the other day and laughed! Then all the comedy ones made me cry! I can't wait until you're experiencing this."

"That would require me to have a boyfriend, Angela," I brush off dryly. Though Angela's nearing her thirties, it often feels like she's my age. Her bubbly personality makes it easy to open up to her.

She sticks her tongue out, crossing her arms with a huff, "You always refuse to go on blind dates because of that stupid boy."

"Is it that obvious?"

Angela raises a brow, scoffing, "A blind man could see it, hun. But whenever you're ready to meet the love of your life, tell me. I'm a miracle worker."

Laughing out, I wave and head down the separate corridor toward my private studio. The owner was a close friend of my mother's, and after she passed away, gave me my own space. Perhaps out of pity, but nevertheless, I'm grateful. "Thanks, Angela." I hear a reply of her own laughter and shake my head. Her suggestions seem tempting, but something stops me from fully committing. It makes me feel like I'm indirectly betraying Grayson, and it sucks that I'm the only one feeling this way.

I slide open the tinted glass doors, embraced by the familiar scent of Jasmine's. It puts me at ease, and I'm myself, finally. After changing into my ballet attire, I throw my hair into a tight bun at the top of my head that leaves my scalp aching. Excitement and adrenaline fill my system, and I yearn for it. Doing ballet is the one thing that connects my mother with me. She was an amazing dancer, and she trained me as soon as I could walk. It was her pride and joy.

Fleeting, that's what life is. And it happened so quickly that it seems impossible to fully process. One moment, and that's all it took for everything to fall apart. One day, she's grinning widely, praising me for how proud she is, and the next, I'm numbed to the core, staring at her gravestone as I blame myself for her death.

Taking deep breaths, I suck up the tears seconds away from falling, and it's taking everything in me not to break down. Starting with a warm-up stretch, I close my eyes and bathe in the silence. Being alone is often a blessing and a curse. Sometimes, it's relaxing, and others, absolutely torturing. This time, it's the latter.

Scrolling through my playlist for a song that suits the mood, I settle with Runaway by AURORA. When the song begins to echo through the speakers, my body unconsciously sways with the melancholy rhythm. It's thrilling, even though I feel like crying. An invisible weight has been lifted off my shoulders. I can breathe. Nothing seems to matter, and I feel free.

Without any type of choreography in mind, I let my body go with the flow. My right arm extends forward, the other above my head, leaning back. I shift into a backbend kick over, then positioning into an arabesque. Kicking upwards, I bend forward in a ninety-degree, turning. Pausing to take a moment and catch my breath, I stretch myself and point my toes, whipping to turn into a fouette. My mother used to encourage me to do at least thirty-two turns on each leg. Any less was simply not good enough. I exert myself to the fullest, even when I feel like collapsing, and I don't stop until I reach my goal.

Faltering down, I take a prolonged sip of water, and I'm suddenly reminded of yesterday. I find myself wondering what Grayson is doing and if he happens to remember. He must be asleep still, considering it's only eight in the morning. Laying down, my face starts to heat up as I cover them with my hands. "You're acting like a lovesick fool," I whisper to myself, "Snap out of it before you embarrass yourself, Kalea." I try to scold myself. And yet, when I tell myself that, all I can think about is his lips on my neck.

My eyes widen suddenly, recollecting myself as I hurriedly crawl to the mirror and inspect. Multiple hickies trail down to my collarbone, and I can't tell if I should be upset with him or feel a bit joyful. Slapping my cheeks to bring me back to reality, I patronize myself sternly, "You're a fool, K. Don't hope for something that won't happen. Don't throw ten years of friendship away for meaningless feelings."

And when that doesn't work, I pinch myself on the wrist before getting up. Sauntering to the end of the studio, I clear my throat and attempt to do the same with my head. Clenching my knuckles, I lick my lips with a sigh. I start with a jog, then speed up, broadly launching off my dominant leg. Leaping as high as I can, my front leg stretches forward, the other behind me. My attempts at perfecting the grand jete have been tedious and difficult. My mother was a perfectionist, demanding that I do it until I did it right. And I never stopped until my legs were bruised or I did it correctly.

With too many things on my mind, I'm distracted. Landing incorrectly on the side of my foot, my leg slams against the mahogany wooden floors. I hiss out with pain, biting out mumbles of curses as I bitterly chuckle out about my rotten luck. Clutching my ankle, I reach out for my phone and dial Grayson's number, impatiently waiting. I bite my lip when it rings twice before going straight to voicemail. Receiving a message notification, my face pales, and I have the uncontrollable urge to smash my phone in pieces. It's a photo of Trixie smiling. Maybe he remembers and doesn't care. But I'm hoping he doesn't.

The pain is consuming, and I don't know whether it's the ache in my heart or from my rolled ankle. I hate the world for toying with my feelings. Maybe I should hate him, but I hate myself the most for letting him do this to me. Heaving out, I focus on the song playing, directing my attention elsewhere.

After a few moments, the pain subsides minimally. I prop myself up and swear like a sailor when a flood of throbbing returns. My knuckles turn white while I hold onto the bars, putting my pants on. I'm angry, but I don't know what I'm exactly angry about.

Nails dig into my palm as I limp my way out, ignoring the concerned calls from Angela. I don't need her help. I don't need Grayson's help. I don't need to rely on Grayson so heavily. I don't need anyone. I've always handled things on my own, and that's okay. I'm okay. And all I can think is how pathetic I am.