Page 9 of The Last Pirouette
She was propped up on her bed, her injured leg elevated on a stack of pillows, the familiar ache a constant companion. Her phone was open, the screen casting a pale glow on her face as she scrolled through Instagram, a parade of perfect bodies and triumphant smiles. Each post was a tiny pinprick to her already wounded pride.
Then, a burst of noise and color erupted as Mila barreled into the room, a whirlwind of energy that instantly felt out of sync with the room’s muted atmosphere. Mila carried a crumpled paper bag from their favorite candy shop, the sweet scent of sugar and chocolate momentarily cutting through Harper’s gloom.
“Surprise!” Mila announced, her voice bubbling with excitement. “I brought reinforcements.”
Mila tossed the bag onto the nightstand, narrowly missing a stack of ballet magazines. Harper managed a weak smile. It was good to see Mila, a brief respite from the endless loop of her own thoughts.
“What’s the occasion?” Harper asked, her voice a little rough from disuse.
Mila perched on the edge of the bed, bouncing slightly, her dark curls bobbing around her face. “Does a girl need an occasion to visit her best friend and bring obscene amounts of junk food?”
Harper managed a chuckle. “Knowing you? Probably not.”
For a moment, they fell into their old, easy rhythm. Mila launched into a story about a disastrous attempt to dye her hair a new shade of red, complete with dramatic reenactments and exaggerated facial expressions. Harper found herself laughing, a genuine, unguarded sound that felt foreign to her ears. It was like stepping back into a familiar dance, the steps ingrained in muscle memory. For a brief, flickering moment, she felt a glimmer of her old self, the girl who moved through the world with lightness and joy.
But the feeling was fleeting.
Mila paused, taking a deep breath, her expression shifting from playful to something more…fraught. “Okay, so, I have… news.”
Harper’s stomach clenched. She braced herself, a familiar knot of anxiety tightening in her chest.
Mila fidgeted with the hem of her t-shirt, avoiding Harper’s gaze. “I know this is probably weird to hear, especially now, but… I got the lead.”
The words hung in the air, each syllable a small, sharp stone thrown at Harper’s heart. The lead. The spring recital. The role. It was all code for the one thing Harper had dreamed of, the one thing she had worked towards her entire life, the one thing that had been ripped away from her in an instant.
She forced herself to meet Mila’s eyes, searching for any sign of malice, any hint of gloating. But all she saw was a mixture of excitement and…guilt?
“The lead in…?” Harper asked, already knowing the answer, the question a desperate attempt to delay the inevitable.
“Giselle,” Mila whispered, her voice barely audible. “They cast me as Giselle.”
The name of the ballet echoed in Harper’s mind, a haunting melody of what could have been.Giselle. A tragic love story, a dance of ethereal beauty and heartbreaking loss. It was the role every ballerina dreamed of, the role Harper had been practically guaranteed before…
Before.
The word was a chasm in her mind, a dark abyss that threatened to swallow her whole.
Mila rushed to fill the silence. “I know, I know, it’s crazy, right? I didn’t even think I had a shot. But Ms. Petrov said she liked my interpretation, and… and she said I had the right kind of fragility for the role.”
Fragility. The word stung. It was meant as a compliment for Mila, but to Harper, it felt like a confirmation of her own brokenness.
Mila continued, oblivious to the storm brewing inside Harper. She launched into a detailed description of the choreography, the costumes, the rehearsals, her words painting a vivid picture of the world Harper had lost.
“The second act is going to be amazing,” Mila gushed. “We’re all going to be wearing these incredible white tutus, and we’ll be floating across the stage like spirits…”
Each word was a fresh wave of pain, a reminder of the effortless grace Harper could no longer achieve. She could practically feel the phantom sensation of her own pointe shoes, the weightless feeling of leaping across the stage, the roar of the applause.
But those sensations were just ghosts now, echoes of a life that was gone.
As Mila spoke, Harper felt herself withdrawing, her body stiffening, her replies becoming short and clipped. The vibrant energy that had briefly filled the room began to dissipate, replaced by a heavy, suffocating silence.
“That’s… great, Mila,” Harper managed to say, her voice flat.
Mila’s excitement faltered, her smile wavering. She finally seemed to notice the change in Harper’s demeanor.
“Harper? Are you okay?”
“Fine,” Harper snapped, the word sharper than she intended. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
