The first breath outside the studio always feels like a small kind of freedom. The air’s warmer than it’s been in months, the sharpness of winter finally fading into something that smells like dirt and early grass. I roll my shoulders as I walk, wincing when the right one catches. Too many hours under Madame Loretto’s glare.

Mila falls in beside me, pulling her sweatshirt tighter around her waist. “I don’t know about you,” she says, “but I feel like I just got hit by a truck made of ballet shoes.”

I huff a laugh. “You and me both.”

“My quads are actively planning their escape.”

“My soul already left my body in the second round of adagios.”

Mila groans. “I’m glad I’m not trying for the Spring Gala. I’d actually have to care.”

I glance over at her. “I still don’t get it. You should try out.”

She gives me a look—dry, unbothered. “Did you see me today? I almost wiped out during barre. And I wasn’t even moving.”

“You weren’t that bad.”

“I was. It’s okay. I’ve made peace with being average.”

I slow my pace a little, adjusting my bag strap. “You’re not average. You’re solid. You just don’t push yourself.”

“I know,” she says, not offended. “That’s why it works. No pressure, no breakdowns.”

I massage my shoulder again, letting the silence settle between us for a second.

Mila glances at me. “You, though. Even when you were messing up earlier? You were still better than the rest of us.”

I shake my head. “That’s generous.”

“It’s not. You just—move differently. You make the floor look like it belongs to you.”

I don’t know what to say to that. Compliments always land strange. Too soft. Like I don’t know what to do with them once they’re in my hands.

I shrug. “Madame didn’t think so.”

“She did by the end.”

“Only after emotionally dismantling me in front of the entire room.”

Mila tilts her head, thoughtful. “She’s rough. But she only does that with people she thinks might actually have a shot.”

I glance up at the sky. It’s that pale, late-afternoon shade of blue, still cool at the edges. The sidewalks are patchy with melted snow and uneven sunshine, but it smells like spring is fighting its way in. Everything’s still ugly—but softer. Lighter.

We stop at the curb. The walk sign blinks red.

“I was off today,” I say, quietly. “I could feel it.”

“Because of Tyler?”

I pause. “Yeah.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“He forgot to pick me up. Again. After class.”

She exhales, long and slow. “Did he apologize?”

“Said he was helping someone study.”

Mila raises an eyebrow but doesn’t say anything.

“It’s not like I expect him to rearrange his life,” I add, even though I don’t owe her an explanation.

“No,” she says. “But maybe remembering yours would be nice.”

We cross the street. I don’t look at her.

“He means well,” I say after a moment. “He’s just… scattered.”

“He’s not in the room with you when you’re bleeding into your shoes, Pen. He doesn’t know what it takes.”

“I don’t need him to understand ballet.”

“I know. But maybe you need him to understand you.”

I don’t answer. The silence stretches out again as we walk past the coffee shop and the florist whose windows are still full of fake snow. I exhale, slow and steady, trying to shake off the weight pressing behind my ribs.

“I nailed it, though,” I say eventually.

Mila looks over. “You did.”

“That last run-through felt… right. For the first time in a while.”

“I could tell. You looked like yourself again.”

The corner bakery is just ahead, and Mila points toward it. “Come on. We earned something soft and full of carbs.”

The smell hits us before the door opens—vanilla, sugar, butter. Warmth.

We order without thinking. She gets her usual cinnamon roll. I grab the chocolate cupcake with the thick frosting swirl. It looks ridiculous. I want it anyway.

We sit by the window, quiet again. People move past outside—rushed, distracted, loud. It’s all so far away in here.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” I say finally, low enough that only Mila can hear.

She doesn’t flinch. “You’re not broken.”

“I just feel… like I’m trying to stay on top of something that keeps shifting under my feet.”

“You’re exhausted.”

Ty (4:52 PM): I’m so sorry

Ty (4:54 PM): I literally suck

Ty (4:55 PM): I completely spaced—Zoe needed help with some chem thing and it just

Ty (4:55 PM): Happened

Ty (5:00 PM): I’m an idiot

Ty (5:03 PM): Please let me make it up to you

Ty (5:04 PM): You’re probably in class now

Ty (5:08 PM): I swear I’ll never forget again

Ty (5:09 PM): Please don’t hate me

Ty (5:15 PM): I love you

Ty (5:15 PM): So much

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