She's fifteen, and she doesn't know yet but this is as good as it's going to get. Her, with her freshly scrubbed face and her hopes and dreams and that big, wide, black stage all lit up for her, that dark, faceless crowd. She was going to be famous someday. She was going to dance. She was going to be beautiful and brilliant and talented.
That was what she thought to herself as she stood behind the curtains, heart pounding in her chest as it always did the moment before she stepped out, taking a deep, cold breath of air as she pulled back her shoulders and tilted her head up, straightened her back, pointed her toes...
..and ran, an elegant couru, all sleek satin and tights pulled over lean legs that lifted impossibly into an arabesque, the line of her body clothed in white a stark contrast to the black background and stage surrounding her, golden hair pulled up into a tightly wound bun at the back of her head. In a few notes, she was across the stage once more, turning foette after foette. She can feel her hair pulling at her scalp, making the skin around her eyes tight, the strain of her muscles as she moves, the glorious adrenaline pumping through her veins as she let her thoughts fade away into the sort of trance that she only found within the confines of dance.
The music swells; her heart almost stops from the way it makes her breath catch in her throat. And then, too soon, always too soon, she is making her way back behind the curtain, panting, muscles already sore, but relishing the strange sound of applause from the audience beyond.