~ Shoutout to my girl,  ExperimentalHuman, for making the gorgeous covers at the top. Not even going to lie, ExperimentalHuman is one of the realest person I have come across on Wattpad. Please be sure to check out her book, Beautiful Storm. I'm absolutely loving it so far. 

Raising my arms above my head, I stretched and let out a yawn. On the days I had dance class, my body would ache in agony. Today was no exception. I pulled off my too-tight pointe shoes and let them tumble to the floor. They were my backup pair, used only in emergencies or in the unlikely event that a kid pukes into my original shoes. Even though I had bandaged my toes I could feel the blisters forming. My backup pair was basically torture chambers for my feet.

From my bag, I dug out my brand-new Bloch pointe shoes. They had arrived this morning and I hadn't gotten the chance to prep them yet. My heart started to beat rapidly in anticipation of preparing my ballet shoes. Just as I was about to sit down and get started, someone tapped at the door. At first, I thought I imagined it but then I saw a figure looming outside.

I tiptoed across the floor and squinted my eyes. The person was wearing a hoodie and I couldn't see their face properly. Pointing at the closed sign, I yelled, "we're closed, sir! Please come back tomorrow at ten." Technically, we didn't close for another half hour but paranoia was seeping into my bones. I couldn't help it. Sometimes my overreactive imagination would run rampant in such situations.

The guy pulled his hood down to reveal familiar hazel eyes. He gave me a wide smile and then waved. Returning his smile, I opened the door for Zane. "What are you doing here?" I asked. He was dressed in a ratty old hoodie and sweats but still managed to look so put together.

"My gym is undergoing renovations. The temporary location is actually just around the corner," he answered, running a hand through his hair as he confidently strode into the studio, almost like he owned the place. "I thought that maybe you wanted a ride home."

For the last three years, my main mode of transportation to get around Toronto was the bus. After failing my driver's test multiple times due to "uncontrollable road rage", I had decided that driving just wasn't for me. I quite enjoyed taking the bus, actually. But at that moment, I couldn't help but feel relieved at the idea of avoiding public transit tonight. "That is really sweet of you. Thanks," I said, punching his arm slightly. "But I have to do something first."

I really wanted to fix my pointe shoes for my next dance class. If I had to use my backup shoes one more time I might lose my feet by the end of the session. "Take your time. I can wait for you," he replied, looking around the studio as he pulled up the sleeves of his sweater.

I smiled at him in the mirror before dropping myself in front of it. "Sit down. This might take a while." He sat down with his back pressed against the mirror and then stretched out his long legs in front of him.

"How was your day?" he asked, crossing his feet at the ankles.

"Good," I said while pulling items out from my dance bag. Zane watched me as I started to fiddle with one of the shoes. Looking up at him, I asked, "Do you want to help?" In response, he leaned forward, crossing his legs under him.

"Sure." Zane took the shoe from me, his slender fingers running across the pink satin. "These are really beautiful."

"They also cost a shit ton," I said while I pulled back the grey flap inside the shoe to reveal the wood underneath. Roughly, I detached the wood from the shoe and then grabbed my knife. Zane let out a loud gasp. There was a horrified expression on his face that made me laugh.

Pressing the shoe against his chest he asked, "what are you doing?"

"Breaking in my pointe shoes," I replied with a shrug. When I first started dancing, my eyes would widen at how easily the older dancers tore apart their elegant, not to mention expensive, shoes. Every ballet dancer had different methods of breaking in their shoes. After years of dancing, I had perfected the routine to a science. Taking the knife, I sliced at the wood and then glued the grey piece back into place.

Zane watched me but didn't move to mirror me. "Are you sure you want me to do this?" he asked, his eyebrows raised. I stretched my leg out to the side, relishing how great the simple action felt. My body felt so stiff.

"Go for it, man," I said and handed him another one of my many knives. "We can get out of here faster if you help." Just like everything else Zane did, he held the shoe so tenderly, like it was made out of glass. Letting out a small sigh, he carefully pulled back the grey flap inside the shoe. Turning my shoe around, I started shaving down the bottom part of it.

We were silent as we worked on the shoes. Zane cleared his throat as he used the knife to make crosses at the bottom of the shoe. Doing this would stop me from slipping on the hardwood floor. 

"Tell me something," he asked softly, running his fingers across the freshly made hatch marks on the shoe in his hands. Maybe the silence was killing him too. "I don't take you to be someone who would like ballet. Why did you choose it?"

I knew exactly what he was saying. Ballet was too delicate for a brash person like me. If anyone else said something like that to me I might have blown a fuse. 

"It was because of your mom, actually." He looked up at me, surprise dancing behind his eyes. He didn't know this about me. "When I was six years old, she took me to see Swan Lake. I thought I would hate every minute of it but I  fell in love with ballet. A few months later, my dad enrolled me in the dance program at this studio." Looking around, I let my eyes pass over the tiny studio.

It was a simple square-shaped space. To me, it was a treasure chest full of golden memories. "I remember my mom going to that. I had no idea that's why you started dancing." 

When I removed the satin from the tip of the shoe, Zane let out a sharp breath but didn't protest. I slid towards the cement wall to my right. "This step is the fun part," I said. I slammed the shoe against the wall. Hard. 

The sound was loud and rough but familiar. Familiar was good. Zane was kneeling beside me, holding the pointe shoe as he watched me with a strained expression. Destroying the beautiful slippers was slowly killing him. The sight of him wincing as we pulled the shoes apart was hilarious.

As fun as slamming the shoes against the wall was, it was a vital step. It made sure that my shoes wouldn't make a clomping noise when I danced across the floor. I signalled to Zane and then he lightly tapped the slipper against the wall. I raised an eyebrow at him. "Put some muscle into it."

"I take back what I said about ballet not being for you. This is perfect for you," he laughed, gesturing to the wall as he did. Taking the shoe from him, I rolled my eyes. Being completely honest here, slamming the shoes against the wall was a great way to let out any pent-up frustration. And I had plenty of that.

He pushed against his knees and easily got up. I slipped the slippers on and then held out a hand for Zane. "Come on, Hendrick. Let's see some of your moves."

Smiling at me, he crossed his arms and leaned against the wall. "I don't dance, Sarah," he said, shaking his head slightly.

"Your loss," I said with a shrug and grin. Walking to the center of the room, I extended my arm out in front of me and leaned forward to complete a penché. I followed that up with pique turns. The shoes weren't perfect yet but would do for the next class.

After every intense dance session, I would always crave something sweet. Right now, I really wanted to pick up some cinnamon buns from Papa Joe's. "What are you thinking about?" Zane asked while I took my shoes off and tucked them into my dance bag.

"Cinnamon buns," I replied with a sigh. "I take it that we're still banned from Papa Joe's?" He responded with a shake of his head.

"I talked to Joe and he got rid of the ban," he responded. 

"That's awesome. Can we pick up some buns then?" I asked with a snicker. My combat shoes lay slumped beside the door. After slipping them on, I tugged my jacket on. "I promise I won't break any more pickle jars." I paused and turned to look at him. "Or watches. I'm really sorry about breaking your watch yesterday."

Zane waved his hand at me while he pursed his lips. "Don't worry about it. Things can be replaced easily. But unlike things, people can't be replaced. I'm just glad that you and Ron are okay."