There’s something about her. You don’t really know what, but there’s something.
It’s not the first time you see her in the room, early in the morning, dancing on some music you never heard before but that she probably likes because it’s the same one every morning.
It took you a while to notice the hip hop dancer that she is in the morning is far different from the classic dancer she is in your afternoon classic class. So different you didn’t recognize her in the first place. It took something like two or three weeks of classes for you to put those two faces together.
In the early morning, in the empty class room, she is wild and free, free hair, loose tank top and sport pants, with strong moves and sharp eyes. But in the afternnon, she’s all spruced up, not even a single hair coming out of her bun, the perfect ballerina with her pink ballet slippers and her perfectly skin-tight outfit, showing the perfect shape of her body.
For some reason, you’d rather look at her in the early morning, when she’s all about crazy hair and loose clothes, though. Because there’s something about the way she dances in the morning that she doesn’t have past noon, something you never manage to put a finger on.
Until today.
Today you can see it.
It’s when the music ends, when she’s all kind of breathless and sweaty, that she flips her hair with her hand and you can see her eyes that you realize what it’s all about.
It’s about the way she smirks when she’s done, a side smile to show how she’s proud of herself.
It’s about the way she holds her hair out of her face for three to five seconds and fans her face and throat with her free hand to get some fresh air.
It’s about the way she lets go of her hair and shakes her head from side to side to put her hair back around her face.
It’s about the way her eyes shine, bright and blue and big, like she’s happy.
You never saw her like this in classic. Like, absolutely never. She’s focused and her eyes are so dark, so full of… emptiness. Which is kind of weird, now that you think about it.
You wish you could see her like this more often. Not only in the morning, but also in classic. You wish she could enjoy classic as much as she seems to enjoy hip hop, but she doesn’t. She doesn’t enjoy classic and probably took the class out of obligation, like a lot of students here do. You did too, to be honest. You’re more of a modern jazz kind of girl, but with your parents and all that, you had to take classic if you wanted to be able to study modern and modern jazz as well. But you kind of enjoy classic now, after a few months, and you wish she did too. Such a pretty face with such a dark feeling coming from her eyes pains you a bit.
But right now is not a dark feeling moment and you’re happy about it. Right now, she’s scrolling through the songs on her phone to find something different to dance on for once. She gets back to the middle of the room when she finally finds something she likes enough and she looks at her reflection in the wall of mirror that’s facing her. She hits the rhythm with her left foot, waiting to begin.
She starts with the bass. As soon as it begins, you feel the floor vibrating but you’re sure the music isn’t loud enough for it to be it. It’s actually your knees that shakes at the sight of her and you kind of want to scold yourself.
Get a grip, Lexa.
You shake your head, once, twice, to regain control over yourself, but every time your eyes lend on her, you knees weakens again.
You realize through her choreography, by the way she holds her head up sometimes, or extends her arms and hand in front of her at some point, that it’s supposed to be a duet. Well at least you believe so, or else she wouldn’t be looking that way, that… expecting.
The choreography is not as long as the song is and when she ends it, eyes firmly looking their own reflection in the mirror, you don’t notice yourself pushing the door of the classroom. She sees you in the glass, you know it, but you take your time to cross the room and put your bag next to hers on the floor. When you turn your attention back to her, she hasn’t turn to face you and is still looking at you through the mirror.
“It’s a duet, isn’t it?”, you say and it kind of pains you to do so. Your voice is as strong as usual – you’re Lexa Woods, people from all over the school fear you because of that voice – but you have to focus to keep it strong, for it not to weaken because of the stress running down your blood at the moment. You’re Lexa Woods, you don’t stress, like, never, you’re known for you self-control and cool head no matter what situation you end up in. You don’t stress. Except now (and maybe sometimes in front of your modern jazz teacher but Anya’s a psycho, you’re sure of that). This girl is stressing you and you want to punch yourself in the face for being so ridiculous.
When the girl nods, you almost feel relieved. Almost, because now you have to speak again. Especially since her brows are knitted together on her forehead in a total lack of understanding of the situation.
You don’t really understand either, if you’re being honest, but hey, now that you’re here…
“Teach me.”
She stays quiet for a moment, brows still furrowed high on her face and you kind of want to run away. What the hap took over you for you to say that? What the hap is happening in your head right now? (Panic, a lot of panic, in case anyone might be wondering).
A small smile appears on her features and she walks towards her phone on the floor, stopping the music.
“Warm up and get ready”, she tells you and it’s the first time you hear her voice. It might be wise for your brain if it were the last one as well but, hey, now that you’re here… You already fried half of your neurons for acting so much on instinct on the past five minutes that you can let it fry a little more. That voice is far from unpleasant, being raspy and warm.
“I was born ready”, you huff and she smiles fully this time.
Well, if it’s not her voice that gets your brain out of work, it’ll be that smile.
“I’m Clarke”, she says as she walks and extends her hand to you. You take it after half a second and hold it for as much time, your hand weirdly warming up at the contact, “Lexa”, you mumble, “I should warn you it’s my first time at hip hop.”
“I should warn you it’s probably not going to be the last.”
A few years later, when you graduate, she can tell all your common friends how right she was as she rests her head on your shoulder, happily smiling. And when you sigh but turn your head to drop a fast kiss on her nose, her eyes get even brighter than when she dances.
A few years later, when you graduate, she tells you she learnt to appreciate classic dance because she could see you wearing really tight clothes and somehow, it made it better for her.
A few years later, when you graduate, you realize the reason of the change in Clarke’s eyes whenever you cached her gaze in classic classes was because she was creeping on you, somehow. And you can’t even find it in you to care, because Clarke’s eyes are so bright it could blind you.
And they’re bright because of you.