Myoui Mina has only one true love, one life goal, and one ambition: dance. She has three rules to emphasize this, ordered by importance:
1. Don't fall in love with your dance partner.
2. Don't partner with Park Jimin, if possible (see #1).
3. And wh...
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That boy has great turnout.
The first thing that Mina notices about him is his impeccable turnout, a straight line bisecting his feet right across, his toes would nearly point backwards if they were rotated a little more, his alignment perfect. It's absurd, Mina thinks, and she looks down at her own legs—knobby, lanky things in her two-year-old peach tights—with a sudden and unwanted self-consciousness.
No matter, she thinks, as she takes a steely breath. She's here to dance. She's here to pursue her passion.
(But she takes a spot at the far end of the room, anyway. Away from him.)
It's early yet, and there are only three, four people in the studio, herself included. Turnout Boy just happens to be one of them, working on his balance at the middle barre. She busies herself with warming up, but if her eyes dart to him every once in a while through the mirrors, well, she's going to blame his truly ridiculous turnout.
Soon enough, the studio starts to fill with students, a healthy mix of thin-framed graceful young creatures, ready to prove themselves—and along with them, all manner of tensions that elite dancers are naturally possessed with. Sharp, commanding, hungry. Some cutting, some haughty, some with quiet determination. A lot of students have gravitated towards each other, forming little tribes with similar attributes as they all warm-up and prepare for class. In a few minutes, the class would start, but it's gotten quite loud and quite social in the studio that Mina is starting to wonder how they'd ever start on time.
She prefers not to speak or even make eye contact with anyone; she knows this kind of crowd, and it's best to stay invisible until they deem you worthy of acknowledgement. And that's alright, really; she's quite content stretching her leg up above her head, against the wall somewhere near the farthest corner, when suddenly:
"Hey. Hello."
She turns her head, sees Turnout Boy standing right in front of her, his dark, sweaty hair nearly falling into his eyes. From coming in early and practising before class, of course, and she realises he must have been practising at least a good hour beforehand. She would be impressed, was she in a physically more capable situation to remember to be impressed. As it is, her limbs are currently too pretzeled.
"You're new," he continues, "I haven't seen you before. I'm Jimin."
Turnout Boy—Jimin—extends his hand, but Mina is currently preoccupied with stretching, so she twists to grasp his hand right back.
"Mina," she manages with quite some difficulty, what with her contorted torso. This earns her a lopsided smile, warm and utterly friendly.
(She almost looks down from shyness, almost registers the way something flips in her chest, almost feels a little more at home when all she has felt since moving to New York was overwhelming loneliness and nerves. Almost.)
