Breaking Pointe | Rough Draft

Three

Today, I was determined to do better.

The room was filled with the soft hum of classical music as I moved through the routine. The familiar smell of wood polish and the faint trace of sweat clung to the studio air. My muscles ached, but in a good way—the kind of ache that reminded me I was pushing myself, that I was here, fighting for each step.

Arabesque. My leg extended behind me, toes pointed like an arrow, and I reached forward, fingertips stretching for something just out of reach. I focused on keeping my hips level, my core tight, letting the movement flow through me.

Jacque's eyes were on us, his sharp gaze assessing every flaw, every misstep, his cane tapping the floor gently. But today, I was determined not to give him any.

I breathed in, finding my balance as I shifted into attitude derrière, my leg bending gracefully behind me, and then flowing into passe, drawing my foot up to rest against my knee. Each move was deliberate, every line carefully crafted. My muscles trembled with the effort, but I pushed the discomfort aside.

Focus. Control. Perfection.

I caught a glimpse of Seraphina out of the corner of my. Her limbs were all liquid grace and confidence, each line a picture of elegance.

But I couldn't let myself dwell on it—not today.

Today, I wasn't going to compare.

I had my own dance to do.

Jacque paced the front of the room, his sharp heels clicking softly against the floor as he watched. His brow furrowed, but I noticed something different in his gaze this time—approval, however slight.

"Bien, bien," he called out as I transitioned into a grand jeté, my body lifting off the ground in a leap that felt almost weightless.

The words hit me like a breath of fresh air, and a small surge of pride fluttered in my chest. I felt like I had been holding my breath all month, waiting for this moment, this acknowledgment.

Finally a break in the storm.

I hate to admit it, but Mary Anne wasn't entirely wrong.

As class wound down, I moved through the cooldown exercises, feeling the sweat cool on my skin. I was exhausted but in the best way—satisfied that I had done everything I could.

Jacque dismissed us with a sharp clap of his hands, his voice curt. "Class is over. Work on your turnout for next week."

I grabbed my towel and wiped the dampness from my forehead, feeling lighter than I had in days. Maybe it was just one good class, but it felt like a victory.

As I turned to grab my bag, a sharp voice cut through the quiet chatter of the other students.

"Well, someone's feeling confident." Seraphina's voice, honeyed and sharp, slid through the air, drawing the attention of the small group of girls she was surrounded by. I glanced over to see her eyeing me with that familiar smirk tugging at the corners of her perfect lips.

I tried to ignore her, busying myself with packing my things, but she wasn't done. "You know," she continued, her voice feigning sweetness, "that uniform really doesn't do you any favors. It's looking a little snug today—especially around the waist."

My stomach dropped as the words sank in. The girls around her giggled, their eyes flickering to me before darting away, the amusement clear on their faces. My face flushed, and suddenly, I was all too aware of the tight fabric clinging to my body.

Seraphina's eyes gleamed with satisfaction as she added, "You might want to size up. Those love handles are practically begging for some room to breathe."