Page 133 of The Bittersweet Bond

Milka didn’t respond, but the way she looked at her spoke more than words ever could.

“And you?” Evin turned the tables, shifting the attention away from herself. “How’s everything with your mom?”

Milka pulled a face. “Oh, you know. She wants me to go to college, be the perfect daughter, and still manage to play a flawless audition piece for the university.”

“And your dad?”

Milka shook her head, her voice turning a little colder. “He doesn’t even bother to call. No birthday card this year, no messages—nothing.”

Evin placed a hand on Milka’s arm, a brief, almost imperceptible gesture of comfort. “He’s an idiot.”

“Yeah, he is,” Milka agreed, her tone laced with sarcasm, but also a quiet resignation.

They sat in silence for a while as the sun climbed higher, warming the air around them.

Evin leaned back, her eyes gleaming with curiosity. “And? Any special plans for Valentine’s? Maybe with Bell?”

Milka grinned. “Let’s keep that a mystery. And you? With Bas?”

Evin rolled her eyes. “Not that I know of. Isn’t it too early to plan that kind of thing?”

“Not sure,” Milka shrugged, raising an eyebrow. “The big charity event is coming up too. That’s bound to get wild.” She smirked. “I mean, if Cat’s involved, it’s definitely not going to be normal.”

Milka stood up, dusting the sand off her jeans, then held out a hand to Evin. “Come on. We’ve wasted enough time. If I sit here any longer, I’ll start contemplating life, and no one needs that.”

Evin laughed, took Milka’s hand, and let her pull her up. “Yeah, enough philosophy. Back to the madness.”

Chapter 38

Balancing Act

Evin

Finally, Evin stood in the large ballet studio, facing the mirrored wall. Her gaze fell on her thin tights and the snug training leotard. The room was brightly lit, the polished wooden floors reflecting the light like a stage. Two months until the big performance. Two months to prove that she still had what it took—or maybe, to prove that she was more than the sum of all the things she tried to suppress.

The other dancers slowly gathered, their familiar murmurs and giggles filling the space. Nele, as always, held herself in perfect posture, her hair pulled into a tight bun, her face expressionless. But her eyes betrayed the critical way she examined Evin.

"You look different," Nele finally remarked, a hint of reluctant acknowledgment in her voice. Evin didn't respond. She knew how much she had changed. The weight she had lost over the past months was obvious, and she had already heard the comments—some admiring, some envious.

Evin shrugged, forcing a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. "A lot of training," she muttered, feeling the stares lingering on her. Nele rolled her eyes, turned to her friend, and whispered something Evin couldn’t hear. But the laughter that followed made her neck burn.

"Quiet, ladies," came their teacher’s calm yet firm voice. "We begin with warm-ups."

The routine was familiar, almost meditative. Evin rotated her legs, held onto the barre, stretched her back. But there was a tremor in her limbs, a lightness that didn’t feel healthy. The familiar movements grounded her, and she tried to ignore the unease gnawing at her from within. Dance was her anchor, her refuge—the only thing holding her together.

When the music for the main routine began, Evin was ready. She had gone through this dance in her head countless times, internalizing every movement, feeling every turn in her bones. The steps came effortlessly, her arms flowed like waves through the air, her legs moved with precision and strength. She felt the tension in the room, the gazes of her classmates—some envious, some admiring.

With every jump, every arabesque, she felt free. Free from the memories that tormented her, from the weight in her chest that so often threatened to suffocate her. But then came the pirouette. As she spun, the ground blurred beneath her. The room twisted, a wave of dizziness overtook her, but she forced herself to complete the turn. Her legs wobbled slightly before she steadied herself. It wasn’t perfect, but she had made it through.

The music stopped, and for a moment, there was silence in the room. Then, her teacher clapped slowly. "Well done, Evin. But the pirouette—more control. Elegance is just as important as technique." Some of the girls exchanged glances, and Evin caught the way Nele’s lips curled into a smirk. But she ignored it, took a deep breath, and nodded. "Yes, ma’am," she said, suppressing her frustration.

After class, as the other dancers left the studio, Evin remained behind. The teacher approached her, her posture relaxed, but her eyes serious. "Evin," she began, "you’ve made impressive progress these past weeks. Your technique is cleaner, your expression more powerful. But I’m concerned."

Evin looked up, her hands tensing. "Why?" she asked softly.

The teacher sat on the bench, her gaze fixed on Evin with a mix of sternness and concern. "Your body is your instrument. And I see how hard you work, but I also see that you’ve lost too much weight. It’s dangerous, Evin. You need energy to dance, to reach your full potential. I don’t know what’s driving you, but you can’t destroy yourself." She paused for a moment and placed a gentle hand on Evin’s shoulder. "Am I the reason? Have I put too much pressure on you?" Her voice was filled with sincere worry.

Evin felt her throat tighten. The gentle touch of her teacher triggered a moment of vulnerability. She wanted to say something, but the words felt stuck in her throat. Her teacher’s words echoed inside her, breaking through the walls she had so carefully built. "I’m fine," she whispered finally, her voice barely audible.

---