1.2 | The Night and Its Stars ⌜ yeosang ⌟

THREE | POSTMORTEM

The former renowned French ballerina turned teacher was an unforgiving mentor. She scowled even when she was proud and criticized even if the time called for praise.

Most days Min would feel more thankful for it, but on this particular day it was grating on frayed nerves. Somewhere along the line life had grown to be miserable and exhausting. Positivity tended to poison her veins, but in truth, optimism was no magical spell that could alter the reality.

The reality was, people here–with their fancy bags, designer homes, and hidden scandals–treated at her like she didn't belong. Quick little stares. A whisper here and there.

Some of the dance professors picked her form apart more than they did the others, even when it was perfect. She felt like a smudge of dirt that everyone had grown to ignore or glower at without really accepting.

No one had to say it. People that look like her weren't ballerinas. Or at least they weren't visible anyway. Glass ceiling and what not, but make it bulletproof.

God, she felt homesick for the Cape of all places. She missed the beach. She missed her little sister Dasom, her dad, even her mom with all of her constant nagging.

Cape Freewell had felt suffocating but as it turns out, so did the city. Newhurst gave the illusion of freedom, but as soon as she stepped foot on campus she realized she was limited by everything. Her race, her bank account, her social circle. NHU had made her into a token and a spectacle, a very tired one.

Her entire body ached from nonstop practice. She was sweaty, gross, and her stomach wouldn't stop grumbling. Her diet had gone to hell and beyond. She was pretty sure she was developing an addiction to caffeine. She went to that stupid party when she shouldn't have.

She saw a girl die.

Minni faltered again mid-leap, breath snatched away by the glimmer of bloodstained skin and glass. 

She saw a girl die and no one cared. She saw Somin die and some part of her knew someone did it on purpose.

"Bah! At this rate, you won't even have the focus to be casted as a tree on set. Let alone Giselle!" Madame Dufort screeched. The woman met her gaze in the mirror and pointed a gaunt finger at the door. "Out with you! Come back when your head is on straight."

"But–"

"There's no room for doubt on the stage, Miss Lee. You are a dedicated dancer, very skilled. But you will get nowhere if you cannot give all of your mind to dance. Get out."

Minni bowed her head in shame, cheeks burning. "Yes Madame. Sorry Madame."

Her hands shook as she undid her pointe shoes. Madame Dufort would not even look at her anymore. A concoction of shame and anger stirred beneath her ribs.

She had much to prove to herself, to the world, and to her mother. Dancing was something she loved to do. Something she had to do, but she couldn't even get past the basics lately, plagued by the death she was witness to.

Fucking Somin. Six feet under and the girl was still giving Minni hell.

She rushed to the bathroom and changed out of her leotard, thoughts running away from her. There was no way she could survive Newhurst like this.

She had to tell someone. Her chest expanded, breath failing. The thoughts built to a crescendo and circled back to the party as they always did.

She recalled Seulgi's cruel words: "I'll kill her and then myself."  Then Somin fell from the roof an hour later.

Coincidence? Maybe.

But Minni had a sick feeling that she was a bystander to something awful.