Page 37 of The Last Pirouette
Mrs. Quinn took a step closer, her gaze intense. “You were a dancer long before you ever stepped into a studio, Harper. It’s in how you walk, how you feel music, how you see the world. Don't let a broken bone take that from you.”
Harper stared at her mother, momentarily speechless. “That’s… that’s just something people say,” she whispered, tears welling in her eyes.
“Maybe,” Mrs. Quinn conceded. “But it’s also true. You think being a dancer is just about perfect pirouettes and flawless technique? It’s about discipline, Harper. It’s about grace, about pushing yourself beyond what you think you’re capable of. It’s about telling a story with your body. And none of that…noneof that is gone. It’s still inside you.”
Harper shook her head, more tears spilling down her cheeks now. “But I can’t… I can’t do any of it anymore.”
“Maybe not the way you used to,” Mrs. Quinn said, her voice softening further, but still firm. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t find a new way. A different way. You adapted to ballet, didn't you? You made it part of you. So find a way to adapt now. Find a way to make this part of you, too.”
Harper scrubbed at her eyes with the back of her hand. “It’s not that simple, Mom.”
“No, it’s not,” Mrs. Quinn agreed. “It’s going to be hard. It’s going to hurt. But you’re stronger than you think, Harper. And you’re more than just a ballerina. You’re smart, you’re creative, you’re resilient. Don’t let this take away everything you are.”
Her mother’s words shattered the quiet resignation she’d mistaken for peace. Stunned, Harper was forced to confront the idea that she had defined herself too narrowly, and the realization felt like a bucket of ice water, shocking her awake.
Mrs. Quinn made the deliberate choice to employ stark honesty instead of gentle sympathy, recognizing that coddling her daughter would only allow her to sink deeper into her depression. It was a calculated, loving risk to shock Harper back to life, a challenge disguised as tough love. She recognized the glimmers of the old Harper, the fire beneath the layers of despair. It was time to stoke the flames.
“Think about it, Harper,” Mrs. Quinn said, her voice softer now, but no less resolute. “Don’t just pack it all away and give up. You owe yourself more than that.”
After the confrontation, Harper was left alone. She picked up her very first pair of worn, child-sized ballet slippers from the box. They were pale pink, almost white with age, the satin faded and stretched, the ribbons frayed. They were tiny, impossibly small, a relic from a time when her dreams were just beginning to take shape.
She traced the frayed ribbons with her thumb, her expression shifting from pure grief to something more complex and contemplative. It wasn’t just sadness she felt, but a flicker of…something else. A spark of defiance? A whisper of hope? She wasn’t sure.
The slippers felt strangely heavy in her hand, a tangible reminder of everything she had lost, but also everything she had gained. The years of dedication, the countless hours of practice, the unwavering passion… it couldn’t all just disappear. It had to mean something.
A memory surfaced, unbidden. The feeling of the stage lights on her face, the hush of the audience, the thrill of the music coursing through her veins. It wasn’t just about the steps, the technique, the perfection. It was about the feeling. The freedom. The joy.
Maybe her mother was right. Maybe being a dancer wasn’t just about what she could do with her body. Maybe it was about something more. Something deeper. Something that couldn’t be taken away by a broken bone.
Mrs. Quinn left the room, closing the door softly behind her. The silence that settled was different now—less empty, more thoughtful. Harper stood frozen in the middle of the room, the half-filled box at her feet. She was still holding the small ballet slippers, her grip tight. Her gaze was distant, fixed on her own reflection in the darkened window, as her mother’s words echoed in her mind, planting the first seed of a different future.
Chapter 24
The low afternoon light streamed through Harper's apartment window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air like tiny ballerinas. Harper sat on her sofa, a half-empty mug of tea grown cold on the table beside her. The liquid’s surface rippled minutely as a city bus rumbled by outside. Her leg ached, a familiar, dull throb that had become a constant companion. It was a protest, a reminder, a weight tethering her to the present.
The words of her mother from their conversation the previous day echoed in her mind, a gentle but persistent challenge to her self-imposed isolation.You can't let your past steal your future, honey.The cadence was so familiar. Harper could almost see her mother’s hands clasped tight in her lap, the way her brow furrowed just so when she worried.Being afraid is okay, but letting fear make your decisions for you is a cage.
Harper swirled the tea, the lukewarm liquid offering no comfort. A cage. That’s exactly what it felt like, a self-made prison of resentment and regret. She'd built its walls brick by painful brick, cementing them with each lost opportunity, each twinge of pain, each envious glance at Mila.
She thought about Liam. The way his face lit up when he talked about hockey, the raw, unfiltered joy he found on the ice. She thought about the kiss, too. Brief and chaste, but a touchstone nonetheless. And then she thought about the look on his face yesterday, the confusion and hurt that shadowed his blue eyes when she’d pushed him away.
Selfish. That's what she was. So consumed by her own pain that she couldn’t even be happy for someone else.
She thought about the Showcase. Abandoning it, leaving Liam to pick up the pieces. It hadn't just been about hurting him, had it? It was about punishing herself, sabotaging any chance of finding something new, something beyond ballet.
The silence in the apartment pressed in on her, heavy and suffocating. The only sound was the faint ticking of the clock on the wall, each tick a reminder of time slipping away. And a growing hollow ache in her chest that had nothing to do with muscles and bone.
Harper's internal debate waged on. The fear was a tangible thing, a knot in her stomach that tightened with every thought of facing the world again. What if she saw Mila, effortlessly executing pirouettes she could only dream of? What if she ran into someone from the dance academy, their pitying glances a stark reminder of her broken body? What if she saw Liam, soaring across the ice, a symbol of everything she had lost?
But then, her mother's voice again:You were a dancer long before you ever stepped into a studio, Harper. You move through life like one.
The memory was vivid. Her mother watching her as a toddler, dancing in the kitchen to the radio, lost in the music. She hadn’t known then what a plié was, what a tendu felt like, but she had known how to move, how to feel, how to express herself through her body.
That Harper, the one who danced in the kitchen, was still there, wasn’t she? Buried beneath layers of disappointment and fear, but still there.
After a prolonged internal debate, weighing her fear of painful memories against her desire to support Liam, Harper made afirm decision. It wasn't about ballet, or hockey, or scholarships. It was about showing up. For herself. For him.
She pushed herself up from the sofa, ignoring the sharp protest from her leg. A wince escaped her lips, but she straightened her shoulders, the resolve hardening.
