Prelude
The dance studio smelled of polished wood and faintly of rosin dust. Sunlight streamed through the towering windows, casting golden streaks across the mirror-lined walls, where little figures reflected back—small bodies wrapped in pastel leotards, feet shuffling in soft ballet slippers.
Five-year-old Faye bounced on the balls of her feet, shifting eagerly from one foot to the other, her small hand gripping her mother’s tightly.
The cool air of the studio tingled against her skin, but her chest buzzed with warmth, excitement bubbling beneath her ribs.
Today was her first real ballet class. She could already see it in her mind—the flutter of tulle as she twirled, the way the dancers in videos leaped through the air as if gravity didn’t exist.
Spinning so fast they blurred, floating for just a second longer than they should.
That was going to be her. But as her gaze swept over the other kids in the room, something felt… off.
—
The children surrounding her were tiny—round-faced, soft-limbed, barely reaching her shoulder.
Some clung to their mothers’ legs, others blinked up at their new surroundings with wide, watery eyes.
A few had already begun crying, shrill wails filling the air as their embarrassed parents whispered hushed reassurances.
Faye frowned, her small fingers tugging at her mother’s sleeve.
"Why are they all so tiny?" she whispered.
Her mother glanced at the enrollment sheet, her brows knitting together.
"Huh… It says here this is the beginner class, but…" She trailed off, then smiled down at her daughter.
"It’s fine, sweetie. Just have fun, okay?"
Faye pursed her lips. Fun. Right. But she wasn’t supposed to be here with the crybabies. She wasn’t supposed to be in the wrong class.
And then she saw her. A tiny girl, smaller than even the youngest in the room, barely three, sitting quietly on the floor with dark, silky hair braided neatly on either side of her head.
Unlike the other children, who clung to their mothers or fidgeted nervously, this girl sat still—almost too still. She wasn’t crying or looking around in curiosity.
Instead, her big brown eyes were cast downward, focused intently on her own feet.
She stretched them carefully, one at a time, her tiny fingers tracing the shape of her pink tights as if memorizing the feel of them.
Faye tilted her head. One of the teachers kneeled beside the girl, speaking in a soft, encouraging voice.
"Lena, do you want to say hello to your classmates?" The girl—Lena—lifted her head slightly, eyes darting to the other children, her small hands tensing in her lap.
She hesitated, then looked back down, giving a barely perceptible shake of her head.
Faye watched her closely. She’s so quiet. Before she could dwell on it any longer, a sharp clap echoed through the room.
—
"Alright, little swans, line up!" Madam Lumière, the instructor, strode to the center of the studio, her stern but kind voice carrying over the chatter.
The children scrambled into place, some still sniffing back tears. Faye found herself beside Lena, who stood stiffly, hands clasped in front of her pink leotard, eyes glued to the floor.
And then the class began.
Faye had expected some of the kids to be clumsy—after all, they were just starting—but she hadn’t expected to feel so… different.
While others struggled to balance on one foot, she found herself growing impatient.
She wanted to move. To jump. To spin. To dance.
Then, her gaze flicked to Lena.
The instructor was demonstrating a développé, and while some kids could barely lift their legs, Lena moved like something out of a storybook.
Her tiny form curved into a perfect arch, leg rising with astonishing control, her expression serene, as if ballet wasn’t something to be learned but something she already understood.
Faye’s mouth fell open.
The girl was good. Before she could stop herself, she blurted out, "You stretch like a ribbon!"
Her voice was bright with awe. Lena blinked, startled, and for a second, Faye thought she might not answer.
Then, in a voice as soft as a whisper, she murmured, "And you… fly."
—
And as Faye watched Lena fold back into her stretches, the world around them seemed to quiet. The chatter of other students, the soft rustle of tutus, even the faint hum of music playing from the studio speakers—it all faded into the background.
Lena moved with the kind of grace that didn’t demand attention but commanded it nonetheless. The slow, deliberate way she extended her leg into a perfect arch, the way her fingers ghosted over her ankle as if committing every movement to memory. She was so small, so quiet, yet every step she took meant something.
Faye had never seen anyone dance like that.
She wasn’t sure what it was—admiration, awe, something unnamed pressing at the edges of her thoughts—but as Lena’s dark eyes flickered up and met hers for just a second, something settled deep in Faye’s chest.
Solid. Certain. As unshakable as the floor beneath her feet.
I want to dance next to her forever.
And somehow, even then, even at five years old, Faye felt like she was making a promise.
One she knew she would never break.
—
Faye and Lena became inseparable.
Though Lena was quiet, hesitant with words, she warmed up to Faye quickly.
They held hands when they practiced balancing, giggled when they wobbled in pirouettes, whispered secrets during water breaks.
They raced to see who could stretch their splits the farthest, collapsed into laughter when they both got stuck.
Lena, despite her shy demeanor, was mesmerizing when she danced. Every movement was precise, controlled, breathtaking.
Faye, on the other hand, was all energy—a firecracker, fast and powerful, her jumps soaring, her turns defying gravity.
Their strengths were different—Lena with her liquid grace, Faye with her explosive power. But they always moved together.
And for years, they stayed that way.
—
At seven, Faye would grab Lena’s hands the second class ended, pulling her into wild, dizzying spins across the wooden floor. Lena would squeal at first, caught off guard, but soon laughter bubbled up, blending with Faye’s carefree giggles as they twirled until they lost balance and collapsed in a tangled heap of leotards and tights.
Madam Lumière would shake her head fondly, sighing about “focus” and “discipline,” but the corners of her lips always twitched with amusement.
When they weren’t spinning, they were climbing—hanging off the barres like monkeys, their legs hooked over the wooden beams as they swayed back and forth.
The studio, empty except for them, carried the echoes of their giggles, bouncing off the mirrored walls.
Faye grinned at her best friend, swinging lightly before dropping to the floor with an exaggerated thud. “One day, we’ll be the best dancers in the studio!” she declared with absolute certainty, puffing out her chest as if daring the universe to challenge her.
Lena, still dangling upside down, peered at her with wide brown eyes, her braids nearly brushing the ground. There was a moment of hesitation—a quiet pause where she studied Faye like she was memorizing her. Then, slowly, a soft, knowing smile spread across her face.
“Together?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
Faye reached up and took Lena’s hands in hers, pulling her down so they stood face to face. She squeezed tightly, her grin unwavering.
“Together.”
And so they danced.
Through laughter and bruised knees, through whispered secrets between pliés and daring jumps off the benches when no one was looking.
Until Maya came.