Re: Studio: Wren & Ryan
Wren's name was narcissism. It was a young girl's attempt at giving herself wings, a bird flying too young and gifting her small daughter with the only way she knew to soar. And Ryan, Ryan was a boy's name, and Wren had thought that the very first time she'd met the dark-haired girl who danced too sweetly for the amateur classes in this studio. Among people who came to feel the music, but who didn't have technical skill, and Ryan was a swan in this space.
"I came back." And the words were about more than geography. Wren, now, was a collection of little nothings. She'd learned that the last time the hotel played games, taught lessons, but she hadn't really needed to be informed. She knew. She knew. She knew, and she hated it, but she didn't know how to become something. She'd never been anything much, and her value was decorative, pretty, the things she could do between crumpled bedsheets, and that had no value now.
But here, with the music and the movement of limbs, she could believe herself interesting again. Barring that, she had a goal now, a purpose, something bigger than herself, something deserving. It was something she closed her fingers around tightly, something kept snug against her chest. And she didn't see Luke very much, not really, and she could keep the secret until it was all done, ribbon tied into a bow and he would be safe for always.
"Who are you trying to be?" Wren asked like it was a given, because Ryan spoke of understanding, and she didn't say the words like they were mere repetition with no comprehension behind them. Non, Ryan sounded like she understood, and Wren's fingers slid along the pale barre. She began to stretch, and she was slow, not yet newly accustomed to the movements of muscles not used in a really, really long time. "Lost, found, something like that. Both?"