Practice Morning

The stage breathed with its own kind of heat—amber sunlight spilling through tall windows, warming the aged wood beneath my slippers. Dust hung in the light like ash from a fire long burned out.

The overture swelled, and my limbs moved before I could think—muscle memory taking over.

I caught my reflection as I turned. My hair was short again—like in high school—clinging damp to my jaw. It framed my face in a way that made me look younger than twenty-two.

Not a kid.

Just unfinished.

My body was ballet—long lines, drilled control, muscles hidden until they moved. Prima ballerina muscles, earned through years of grinding my feet bloody on studio floors. But my face still held too much softness. Like it hadn’t caught up to what I’d become.

Maybe that was the hook. Audiences leaning forward, entranced by the contradiction: this innocent face delivering technique sharp enough to cut glass. I’d been the youngest principal dancer in the company’s history, the girl who clawed her way up from the corps on sheer will.

Yet now, staring at my reflection, I wondered if that face had become the problem. Hard to take someone seriously when they looked like they should still be asking permission to stay out past curfew.

The irony wasn’t lost on me. I’d spent years perfecting my craft, becoming untouchable on stage.

Now I was one bad review away from losing everything I’d bled for.

Even today, my timing was off.

Just enough to feel.

Just enough for Patricia to notice.

Luciana sat at the edge of the stage, arms folded, gaze sharp as a tuning fork. She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to.

I pushed off into a pirouette—three turns, land en pointe. My ankle fluttered on the second. A stumble, hidden in motion.

Not a fall.

But enough.

Across the studio, Patricia was already moving, claiming the space like it owed her something. Her lines were perfect. Her silk leotard caught the light like a spotlight was waiting for her to step into it.

Luciana raised a hand.

The music cut.

“From the top,” she said.

Her voice held no judgment, but it didn’t have to. My body already knew it had disappointed her.

Patricia arched a brow toward me as she reset. Just the subtlest glance—like a flick of a whip.

She was smiling.

Barely.

The music resumed.

She launched into the opening sequence, and I was meant to mirror her. But her movements were sharper than last week. More aggressive.

She wasn’t dancing beside me.

She was dancing at me.

I tried to match her tempo—match her phrasing—but every step felt like a reaction.

Not a choice.

Luciana tapped her pen against the score.

Then it happened.

A partnered rotation—Patricia came around just a breath early and clipped my shoulder. Just enough to unbalance me, to make me falter a half-beat late in the lift. My foot scraped the floor instead of clearing it.

The music stopped again.

Luciana stood, silent, arms crossed.

“Well,” Patricia said lightly, fanning herself with a towel. “That was… brave.”

I turned to face her, still catching my breath. “You cut across my line.”

Patricia tilted her head. “Funny. I thought you were improvising.”

Luciana said nothing. Her eyes were now fixed on me.

I stepped forward. “Let’s not pretend that was an accident.”

Patricia’s smile widened, saccharine and practiced. “My dear, if I wanted to take you out, you wouldn’t be standing.”

Gasps flickered from the corps dancers. The room tensed like the pause before a thunderclap.

I held her gaze. “This isn’t the Bolshoi. You don’t need to kill your competition to earn a spotlight.”

She leaned in slightly, voice just low enough for me to hear.

“If you think you can stumble through rehearsals on name and past glory alone, you’re fooling yourself.”

Luciana’s heels clicked once as she walked toward us. A hush fell over the studio.

“Enough,” she said, voice smooth but flint-edged. “Both of you.”

We stepped back. Patricia curtsied—flawless.

I just nodded, jaw tight.

Luciana paced slowly between us, her hands behind her back.

“Technique can be taught. Precision, drilled. But presence—” she looked directly at me, “—must be chosen. Reaffirmed. Daily.”

She turned to Patricia.

“And discipline does not give you permission to tip off your fellow dancers.”

Patricia bowed her head slightly, lips pressed into a faint line.

Not an apology.

Just submission.

Luciana’s gaze returned to me.

“If you are distracted, resolve it. The prima role does not wait for anyone.”

Then, to the whole studio:

“Ten-minute break. Hydrate. We resume sharp.”

The moment she turned, Patricia slid closer, just enough to brush past my shoulder with a whisper.

“They won’t wait for you forever, Natsumi. And neither will I.”

I didn’t answer.

I couldn’t—not with my breath caught halfway between rage and doubt.

Sylvie was at my side in an instant. “She’s scared,” she said plainly. “That’s why she’s sharpening her claws.”

“Then why do I feel like I’m the one bleeding?”

“Because you’re human. She’s… rehearsed.”

I sank onto the bench, heartbeat pounding behind my ribs like a metronome gone wild. I reached for my water bottle, fingers trembling slightly.

Patricia danced perfectly for the remainder of rehearsal.

I didn’t miss a single step—but I couldn’t shake the feeling that Luciana had already begun making her calculations.