Movement is a blessing. The ability to control one's body at any whim. Ballet has only enhanced my view on that.

I pivot on toe, my limbs the very embodiment of movement.

The music swirls around me; every step I take perfectly in time. As the song draws to a close, I feel the world come back into focus.

"Very good, but you need to work on your footwork, it's sloppy." I hear miss Hayden call out from across the studio. "If you want to win, you need to be perfect." I know she's half-kidding, but still... she's right. The WBAC Grand Prix is coming up and I'm competing against the best of the best.

"Again!" She restarts the music, I stand a little straighter. Ballet is all about making excruciating pain look beautiful and flawless.

Arms raised, pivot, dip and back again. The wind I create from my momentum rushes around me, faster and faster. It's only a three minute song, yet I feel it stretch into infinity.

"Again! Lift your feet, this is a spirited dance." The song plays for the fourteenth time, but I'm different every time, always improving, always changing.

Right foot, left, arms held high.

"Again!"

So it goes.

But this is what I chose, and this is what I committed to.

I wouldn't have it any other way.

"Again!"

Another hour of this until I feel as if my feet are bleeding, and she tells me I've improved greatly.

"But you must practice." Always. This is the message she leaves me with when lessons are over. I cross the room on aching feet, retrieving my bag resting by the door.

"Bye Miss Hayden." I call, slinging the light bag on my shoulder.

"Goodbye."

I change out of my dance clothes into familiar things, my favourite leggings and jacket, the one with really deep pockets. I lower myself to the floor, reaching for my toes.

Miss Hayden has been teaching dance for years, ever since she retired, yet she's only thirty-five. Dancers retire early, it's a short career. Like a match, we burn bright, then are extinguished. My only hope is that I make a long-lasting impression on the world, I've got to make do with the time I have.

A good twenty minutes of stretching later, I feel much better.

I push open the glass door, and a blast of frigid air hits me in the face. I wrap my candy-striped scarf tighter around my neck, peering about for the familiar grey car.

There it is: over by the rear of the building. I slide into the passenger seat, grateful for the warmth.

"How'd it go?" My mom asks, cheery as ever. I smile faintly at her, taking a sip from my water bottle.

"Fine. She says I was much better today."

She pats my knee. "That's wonderful! How would you feel if we stopped by Carter's on the way home?"

I nod, I'm not too tired. "Yeah, sure. Can I get a coffee?"

She nods absentmindedly, probably making a mental shopping list. I stare out the window, watching buildings and people pass by. Most of the buildings are grey, with the occasional colorful storefront. The people are bundled up in hats and scarves to ward off the winter chill.

"Hey, what about Nationals?" She says suddenly.

"What about them? They're in two months, and I'm working as hard as I can."

She turns on fifth. "I know. But are you ready?"

I pick at the hems of my sleeves, most of which have already been torn to shreds.

"I don't think so. Not yet. But I will be." I say. She nods again, pulling into the familiar parking lot.

"Okay."

~~~