In Sync

By the time the ballet studio announced its closure, Faye and Lena had settled into a new kind of rhythm.

It wasn’t the same as before—there were still gaps, years of lost time that couldn’t be erased in a few months—but Faye found herself standing next to Lena at the barre more often. She waited for her after class, walking with her in comfortable silence.

She didn’t rush things, didn’t demand Lena’s attention like she once had as a child. Faye learned the art of patience, giving Lena the space she needed, listening closely to her soft-spoken words that had never changed. 

There was something calming in this new dynamic, in the way Faye became the only one who could truly understand Lena. Even Madam Lumière, with all her experience, often struggled to decipher Lena’s quiet requests. 

But Faye, without hesitation, would repeat what Lena had said, translating her words in a way that felt natural. There was a quiet sense of pride in that—pride in being the one who understood Lena when no one else did. 

Over time, she had learned not to push or ask for more, but to simply orbit around Lena, attuned to her every unspoken need.

And Lena, for her part, seemed to find comfort in Faye once again.

—

So when their teacher gathered them one afternoon, her voice unusually heavy, and announced, “This studio will be closing at the end of the year,” Faye’s first thought wasn’t about ballet.

It was about Lena.

Lena, who had only just found her way back to Faye after so much silence.

Lena, whose face drained of color as the words sank in, the panic creeping into her eyes as if the ground beneath her had shifted.

Faye’s chest tightened. A heaviness settled deep in her, something far beyond the loss of the studio. It was a gnawing worry— What will this do to her? To them? —a painful, unspoken ache that seemed to fill every inch of the room between them.

The chatter around her became a dull buzz, voices merging into a blur. Some girls cried, others frantically asked if their teacher would open a new studio. But Faye barely registered it. Her mind was fixed on Lena, on how fragile she seemed in that moment.

Faye’s gaze snapped to Lena, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor, her back stiff, her face buried in her hands for a moment before she lowered them, too overwhelmed to cry but too shaken to look up. Her fingers dug into the hem of her leotard in a too-tight grip as her knuckles turned white with tension.

Instinct took over. 

Faye’s hand moved before she could stop herself, reaching out, her fingers brushing lightly against Lena’s wrist. The contact was almost imperceptible, but it was enough to make Lena’s head snap up.

Their eyes locked, and Faye could see the rawness in Lena’s expression—the fear, the vulnerability. It made Faye’s heart twist with a mixture of protectiveness and a quiet longing. She wanted to reach out, to tell her everything would be okay, to somehow make this pain go away.

We’ll figure it out, Faye wanted to say, I will continue dancing if it means to be by your side.  

But the words lodged in her throat, too heavy to speak, as though they might break something fragile between them.

In the silence, Faye saw Lena’s shoulders relax just the slightest bit, the weight of her worry easing, even if just for a moment. And in that unspoken exchange, Faye knew the words weren’t necessary. 

Somehow, they both understood.

—

The new studio was an hour away.  

Most of their classmates chose different paths—some quit ballet altogether, some transferred to another studio. Madam Lumière was sad to see them go, but Faye and Lena had no doubts.  

They would follow their teacher.  

By then, Faye was eighteen, old enough to travel on her own. Lena, sixteen, was still too young to go alone. But their parents had known each other since childhood, and it didn’t take much convincing before Lena’s parents agreed:  

“She can travel with Faye. Faye’s responsible.”  

And so, it became routine.

—

Every afternoon, without fail, Faye and Lena would meet at the train station. Faye would always arrive 15 minutes earlier, living closer to the train station while Lena was always on time, not a second late.

The time between ballet practice and their train departure had a rhythm to it now, like a familiar song that played in the background of their lives. 

The station itself, with its bustling crowds and the steady hum of trains arriving and departing, became a second home to them.

They didn’t always need to talk. Sometimes, the silence between them felt more natural than words could. They sat side by side, the distance between them small enough to feel each other’s presence, but enough for them both to retreat into their own worlds. 

Occasionally, they would exchange casual conversation—about school, their teacher, their progress in ballet—but other times, words were unnecessary. 

They would simply exist together, quiet and content, letting the rhythm of the trains and the passing scenery fill the spaces between their thoughts.

—

They had even gotten used to spending time together outside of class, carving out moments where it was just the two of them, no distractions. 

Over the years, they shared countless meals—some quick bites before class, others slow, lingering dinners when time allowed. The meals were more than just food; they were punctuated by laughter, the occasional sadness, and, most of all, the quiet comfort of their warm, unspoken consistency in friendship. 

They’d talk about everything and nothing, letting the hours slip by without realizing it.

Sometimes, they would go shopping before class, their hands full of bags as they wandered the familiar streets, picking out small things they didn’t really need, but enjoyed together.

Their laughter would fill the space between the shops, the sunlight casting long shadows as they strolled along, side by side. Faye found herself often glancing at Lena, taking in the way she’d wrinkle her nose when something amused her or the way her eyes sparkled with quiet excitement when they found something they both liked.

It was simple, but it was theirs. No expectations, just shared moments, sometimes silent but always comfortable.

Of course, Madam Lumière, always observant, had noticed. 

She would give them knowing glances whenever they returned to the studio together, her smile wide but faintly amused. It wasn’t unusual for them to be so connected, but Faye wondered sometimes if their bond was more noticeable than they realized. 

Madam Lumière would often comment on it—sometimes a teasing word, sometimes a more pointed remark. “Always together, aren’t you two?” she’d say, raising an eyebrow as if she knew more than she let on.

And then there were the other moments.  

—

Some days, the exhaustion of the long hours spent in the studio would catch up to Lena. Faye would notice the subtle signs: how Lena’s eyelids fluttered with a faint heaviness, how her body would sag slightly, growing too tired to hold itself upright. 

It was then, when the weariness became too much, that Lena’s head would slowly tilt forward, fighting the pull of sleep.

That was when it happened.

Faye could sense the danger in the angle Lena’s head was tilting—if she wasn’t careful, she’d crash into the cold window next to her. 

Without thinking, Faye moved closer, her body instinctively pressing a little nearer to Lena’s. She leaned in, her voice barely over a whisper, not wanting to disrupt the fragile moment.

"Here," Faye said quietly, "You can lean on me."

Lena hesitated, just for a moment, as if she were weighing the vulnerability of the offer. But then, slowly, her head came to rest—hesitant at first—against Faye’s shoulder.

It wasn’t sudden. It wasn’t a bold or dramatic gesture. It was more like a quiet surrender, a slow acceptance of the comfort being offered. Lena’s warmth seeped into Faye’s side, familiar and gentle. The soft strands of Lena’s hair brushed against Faye’s neck, sending a shiver down her spine that she couldn’t quite shake.

Faye didn’t move.

She let Lena settle in, the slight weight of her head pressing against her shoulder, a subtle but undeniable gesture of trust. Faye stayed still, her body perfectly rigid, as if afraid to disturb the fragile connection between them.

She could feel the rise and fall of Lena’s breath, slow and steady, the quiet rhythm of it almost syncing with the beat of her own heart. Each soft exhale from Lena brushed against Faye’s skin, the warmth of it mingling with the coolness of the station air. The world seemed to fall away, the noise of the train station fading into a distant hum.

In those moments, Faye could almost forget everything else. The way time seemed to stretch and bend around them, as if nothing existed outside the small space they shared. She memorized it—the warmth of Lena’s presence, the way the sunlight filtered through the station windows, casting long, soft shadows that seemed to draw the moment out longer than it really was.

At times, when Lena’s eyes fluttered shut, Faye would find herself mesmerized by the delicate movement of her eyelashes, the gentle rise and fall of her breathing as she slept so peacefully. The calmness of it was almost hypnotic, and Faye would often find herself staring, transfixed by the softness of the moment.

Other times, Faye would notice a stray lock of hair that had come loose from Lena’s bun, gently curling near her temple. The instinct to reach out and brush it away was almost overwhelming, but Faye always resisted. 

She couldn’t quite explain why, but there was something about the quiet intimacy of the moment that made her hesitant to disturb it, as if the slightest movement could shatter the fragile peace between them. The urge lingered, but she held herself back, unsure of what prompted her desire to touch, or what it might mean.

It was as if time paused in those moments, allowing them to simply be , together. And Faye, for all the uncertainty she felt about what it meant, found a strange comfort in the simplicity of it.

—

One day, the train was unusually crowded, and there were no seats left. Faye and Lena stood side by side, laughing together as they recounted the thrilling moments of the winning football match from their favorite team. 

Lena was animated, her hands gesturing enthusiastically as she spoke, her face bright with excitement. The air between them was light, filled with their shared amusement, and for a moment, everything seemed to flow effortlessly.

Faye couldn’t help but smile, a warm, fluttering feeling blooming in her chest. It wasn’t just the laughter—though that in itself was enough to make her heart swell—it was everything about this moment. Lena, so full of life, her eyes sparkling with excitement as she animatedly recounted the football match. The way her hands moved in time with her words, the way her smile lit up her face. 

But as much as Faye was caught up in the joy of it, something else stirred inside her. A quiet, conflicted feeling that tugged at her heart. She was torn—part of her wanted the world to see Lena like this. 

To see how vibrant, how alive she could be. 

People often thought of her as shy, reserved, the kind of girl who would disappear into the background. But Lena was so much more than that. Faye had seen it—knew it, deep down. The quiet moments where the world fell away and Lena’s true self shone through. 

A depth, a fire, something fierce and untamed—not the kind that sought to destroy, but the kind that enveloped you with warmth, a quiet power that could only be felt up close, making you feel safe, alive.

Faye was the only one who had been close enough to witness it, the only one who had glimpsed the full spectrum of Lena’s soul. 

The fire that burned beneath her quiet exterior, the way it flickered and sparked, always just beneath the surface, waiting for someone to see it.

And yet, there was another side of Faye, one she wasn’t sure how to name, that wanted to keep this version of Lena to herself. 

The Lena who laughed like the world didn’t exist, who let down the walls she kept up so carefully around everyone else. Faye didn’t want anyone else to see her like this—not the way she did. 

She didn’t want the world to understand Lena the way she had come to. Soft, yes, but also fierce. 

Quiet, but brimming with life and fire, all the things she had only glimpsed in their shared moments. It felt personal, sacred in a way, and Faye wasn’t ready to share it with anyone else.

—

Lost in her own thoughts, Faye barely registered the sudden lurch of the train. Without warning, it jolted forward, throwing them both off balance. 

Lena, caught completely off guard, stumbled, her body swaying as she struggled to regain her footing.

In that split second, Faye’s instincts took over.

Before she even fully realized what she was doing, Faye’s hand shot out, her arm curving around Lena’s waist with a fluid, practiced motion, pulling her gently but firmly toward her. 

The weight of Lena’s body settled against her, warm and solid, and for a brief moment, Faye felt the delicate shape of Lena against her.

She could sense the softness of Lena’s sweater beneath her fingers, the warmth of her skin seeping through the fabric, and the faint scent of flowers lingering in her hair, still carrying the trace of the day’s practice.

Time seemed to slow as Faye’s fingers tightened around Lena’s waist, her face instinctively leaning closer, catching the sweet fragrance of her neck. 

Neither of them moved, suspended in the quiet tension that filled the space between them. Their breaths were steady, the warmth of their bodies merging in the stillness that enveloped them.

Faye could feel the heat of Lena’s skin through her leotard, the subtle hitch in Lena’s breath as she steadied herself against her. 

The moment lingered, fragile and intimate, and Faye couldn’t help but feel the closeness between them—an unspoken connection, quiet but undeniable.

Then, slowly, Lena eased herself back, gently pulling away.

“...Thanks,” Lena murmured, her voice quiet, almost shy, as she tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

“No problem,” Faye replied, her voice steady, though her thoughts were anything but.

—

She couldn’t pinpoint when it had started—the shift in her focus, the way every small movement of Lena’s seemed to settle into her mind, lingering there long after. 

It was the subtle things: the way Lena’s fingers twitched just before a pirouette, signaling the next turn, the way their eyes locked in silent communication, never truly leaving each other’s gaze as they danced through endless free allegros. 

They didn’t even need to speak sometimes; one glance was enough to remember the section the other had forgotten, their bodies so in sync, so attuned, that it felt like they were reading each other’s thoughts.

It was in the small details too—the way Lena’s lips would bite down lightly when she was lost in thought, or how her eyes softened, just barely, whenever they met Faye’s. 

There was a subtle shift in the air between them, an unspoken connection that ran deeper now than it ever had before.

Faye couldn’t explain it, this quiet change that had woven itself into their interactions. It wasn’t something she could name, and it left her uncertain, questioning the space between them in a way she never had before. 

But despite the confusion, she couldn’t deny how alive it made her feel—how the mere presence of Lena, the closeness of their bond, seemed to awaken something deep inside her.

And Faye didn’t know what to do with it.