Parallel Lives | BBANGSAZ

N I N E T E E N

H A N N I
—

My reflection stares back at me in the mirror, and I'm so confused by what I see.

Sleek bun, pink tights, black leotard, pink skirt, pink ballet shoes. This is exactly how I've looked my entire life, but right now, in this moment, that girl staring back at me doesn't feel like myself anymore. I don't recognize that woman; I have no idea who she is.

I try to smile, but it feels forced, fake, and I realize that maybe I'm broken inside. Maybe there's a little girl inside of me, the one who actually enjoyed dance classes, begging me to let her out and be free because I'm clinging too much to her, but she doesn't want to come out—she's not ready. Not when there's a woman close to me bringing her down each day.

"God, how much have you eaten, Hanni? What did I tell you?" Her hands are on my cheeks, my arms, my stomach, squeezing every part of me. "You have a costume to fit in next month, you know that, right? Any other ballerina has a way better body than you."

I don't answer her; her hands make me flinch every time she squeezes.

I try not to react to her words, her coldness, her lack of emotion every time she says something—I am used to this. I've been used to her since I was fifteen. Every word, every squeeze, every yell, I just listen and don't respond. Only when she wants me to.

"You've put on so much weight." I haven't. "You need to start taking more hours at the gym. Also, I'd like you to come every day at eleven a.m. We're getting closer to the performance, and I want you to do it perfectly."

I nod even though she's not watching my face. Her eyes are going up and down my body, looking for imperfections and making me feel bad about myself. I close my eyes, feeling so uncomfortable. I only want to hide in my bed and let it swallow me.

I shouldn't have come back, but I can't let them down. I just can't. She wants me to come to the studio at eleven in the morning; most of my classes end after noon—what the fuck am I going to do?

I rub my right foot, ignoring how the burning feeling spreads all over my leg, and go once more. It's nothing a massage and an ice bath can't fix. Not what my doctor thought, anyway. Madame Mina walks around the studio, leaving me standing alone in the middle of it. I missed four classes, and I'm paying the price right now. It's past eight p.m., and I'm still here, overworking myself with just a bottle of water in my system. Exactly what the doctor said I shouldn't do.

She presses play for the who-knows-how-manyth time, and without any warning, I start dancing. My mind is automatic when she presses play; my body starts moving—it feels kind of robotic. My body and my mind don't feel mine when I'm trapped in these four pink walls.

I have the choreography memorized, have been working on it for months, the movements are second nature to me, but Mina always finds something wrong with it. Maybe my arms were in the wrong position, maybe my leg in the wrong place, maybe my face didn't represent what the character was trying to convey. But I know it's all bullshit. I'm working my ass off with this; I've watched performances since I was nine. I know I'm doing everything right, but who am I to say anything to the Mina Myoui?

The music stops abruptly, and I freeze, trying not to flinch when my feet touch the floor. Stop overworking yourself. Tell her you need to go. You've been here for nine hours. You're supposed to be here for four.

I find her bright eyes across the room, and she just stares at me with an expression I can't read. "It's coming out perfect, Hanni. You need to lose some weight, but it's perfect. How's your leg?"

My nose wrinkles, and I brush a strand of hair away from my face. "Uh, it's good. Nothing hurts." Except for my whole body.

Mina nods; a smile curves on her lips. "Great. See you tomorrow at eleven?"