Lift // Hamliza

• chapter 1 •

• Alexander •

I sighed, picking up a grey hair band and tying my brown hair into a messy bun quickly. I scooped my bag up from off the ground and left my tiny apartment, locking the door on my way out.

I shivered in the cold October air as I walked briskly to the studio. I knew at this time there'd be an open room I could use.

I pulled the front door open and warm, comfortable air swept over me. I felt immediately at peace as I walked into a gray walled room.

I plugged my phone into the speaker system waiting there and selected my warm up playlist. I walked to the barre and began to plié to the music. Eventually, after I had practiced degágés, tondues, rand de jambs, and all my other combos, I turned on a slow song and continued the choreography I had started yesterday.

I turned and leaped across the room, my pirouettes ending at precisely the right time and my leaps always landing just right. Today was a good day for me.

I finished the dance with a tour jeté and ended in an open arabesque pose.

I practiced for a little while longer before I checked the time on my phone. It read 9:10 pm. I knew the studio closed at 9:30, so I packed my stuff back into my bag and fixed the studio to make it seem like no one was there. They don't care if you use the studios personally, but they request you put them so they can be used for the next class without having to be cleaned up by that class.

I hugged myself a little bit as I walked outside, and just like everyday, before I crossed the street, I looked back to see the fluorescent purple sign. Revolutionary Dance.

I smiled to myself as I pictured me as a famous dancer someday. It's always been a dream of mine. But it's not the top dream. I want to be an author, but being a dancer on the side couldn't hurt, I guess?

I envisioned myself, swooping across the stage, twirling a beautiful girl around me. I imagined her perfectly pink pointe shoes, and me, holding her in my arms as we hit our gentle final pose. I saw myself laughing and smiling during rehearsals with this girl, talking and sharing food.

If only that girl in my daydreams had a name. A face.

If only a girl would fall for someone like me. The one everyone labels as gay because I'm a dancer. The one everyone calls weak because I get terrified during storms. The one everyone calls a bastard because my parents left me. The one nobody loves, and nobody wants to love.

That's me.