Desire

VII.

Isabel

As soon as the door clicked shut behind Lea, the room felt heavier without her presence, like the space she left behind had absorbed her mood. I walked over to the corner, the one piled high with paintings, sketchbooks, and worn-out ballet slippers—evidence of all the things I never had time to put away.

Ballet was always my first love, long before painting ever became something I even cared about. It wasn't just a hobby or something to pass the time—it was a part of me, as natural as breathing. My mom liked to say I was dancing before I could even walk, always twirling around, balancing on the tips of my toes. She enrolled me in classes as soon as I was old enough to toddle in a tutu, and it wasn't long before I realized ballet wasn't just some after-school activity. It was something I needed.

There's a discipline in ballet that I never found in anything else. The precise lines, the way every movement is controlled, calculated, yet still looks effortless—it's like trying to achieve perfection in motion. And that's what I chased. That feeling of mastery over my body, over the music. It's the only place where I could be completely focused, completely free.

When I was younger, I used to stay late at the studio, long after everyone else had left. I'd practice until my feet were sore, until my legs burned, pushing myself harder than anyone else ever could. It was an obsession, but a good one. It gave me control, a sense of purpose that nothing else did. Everything else in life felt chaotic, but ballet—it made sense. If you worked hard enough, the results showed. No one could take that from you.

I remember when I performed my first solo. I was eight. The stage lights were blinding, and my heart was pounding so hard I thought it would break through my chest. But the second the music started, it all faded away. I moved like I had a thousand times in practice, only this time it felt different. There was an audience, there were eyes on me, but it didn't matter. Nothing mattered except the dance.

That's when I knew. Painting was nice. It was a way to express myself, sure, but ballet—it was who I was. It was everything.

Even now, after all these years, after all the competitions and recitals and endless hours at the barre, it still gives me that same feeling. The thrill, the calm, the control. Painting is something I can put down and walk away from. Ballet... I couldn't stop even if I wanted to.

It's not a choice. It's a part of me, something I carry in my bones. No matter how far I go, or how many distractions I let into my life, ballet is always there, pulling me back in.

My eyes landed on an old painting I hadn't touched in years. It was half-covered by other canvases, but I knew exactly what was underneath—an unfinished castle with fairies dancing in the background. I painted it when I was seven.

I stood still for a second, letting the memories pull me back.

Lea had been here before. Not this apartment, but my house, back when we were kids. I could still picture her, smaller then, sitting cross-legged on the floor beside me, watching me paint. She was always watching me back then, with those curious eyes, never saying much unless I made her talk.

"Why are there so many fairies?" Lea had asked, leaning forward to get a closer look at the canvas. Her voice was small but eager, like she was afraid of breaking the spell I was casting with every brushstroke.

"Because," I had said, not looking away from the painting, "fairies protect the castle."

She gave me that serious nod she always had when we were younger, like she believed everything I said was fact. "But there are no people in the castle. Who are the fairies protecting?"