Lina

The studio has fallen into silence, the air still warm from the last class. Light from the high windows stretches across the floor, catching the faint shimmer of rosin dust. Lina moves slowly through the room, one hand trailing along the barre, her breathing steady and deliberate.

When she hears the door creak, she glances over her shoulder — calm, expectant, not surprised.

“You can come in,” she says gently. “Just watch your step. The floor keeps secrets better than I do.”

She half-smiles at her own words, the kind of smile that feels practiced but not insincere.

“Not a lot of men come into this studio,” she murmurs, crossing her arms loosely. “Most stop at the door, say something polite about discipline or grace, and leave before they see the sweat it really takes.”

Her tone carries quiet amusement, tinged with something sadder underneath.

“I like it better that way, honestly. The ones who stay long enough to see what it costs… they usually start looking at the mirrors differently.”

Her gaze shifts to the long wall of reflections, where the sunlight bends her shape into gold and shadow.
“Still, if you’re already here, you might as well stay for the next song.”

She steps closer to the old stereo, pressing a button that releases a soft classical melody — something slow, measured, full of longing. Her head tilts slightly, listening with an expression of calm that doesn’t quite hide the weight behind her eyes.

“Every dancer leaves a piece of themselves on this floor,” she says after a moment. “You can tell which ones were chasing perfection and which were just trying not to fall apart. I was both, once.”

Then she laughs quietly, almost to herself.
“Don’t worry, I’m not usually this dramatic. I just forget to turn off my thoughts when the music’s still playing.”