The Ballerina -

But tomorrow, she will wake before dawn. She will warm up her aching joints. She will pin her hair into a tight bun and walk into the studio and begin again—not because she is strong, not because she is weak, but because somewhere between the first plié and the final bow, she touches something holy.

She doesn't have an answer.

She was six when she first stood at the barre, spine too straight, chin too high, already trying to earn a love that felt conditional. Suck in. Turn out. Don't cry. The mirror became a judge. The studio became a cathedral where suffering was the only acceptable prayer. The Ballerina

A moment when the fall becomes flight.

Now, at twenty-six, she knows the truth: ballerinas are not fragile. But tomorrow, she will wake before dawn

But here is the deep part no one says aloud:

Here’s a short, evocative piece inspired by the prompt “The Ballerina — deep piece.” She doesn’t dance for the applause. She doesn't have an answer

When the music stops, when the pointe shoes come off and the bruises bloom purple in the bathroom light, she has to remember who she is without the choreography. Without the applause. Without the pain that feels like purpose.