Elegance.
This was all she had worked her life up to be. Elegant. But how well can the well acclaimed high school Ballerina Jennie Ruby Jane Kim keep up with her facade the minute her life begins to spiral out of control? Will she be able to keep d...
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She kept turning.
She never broke character, never struggled.
She was perfect, maybe the most perfect even. A beauty that was endless, posture that never bent under the pressure, and a series of perfect and stable pirouettes.
Maybe that's why she was so detested.
Just then, the tune cut abruptly as the ballerina froze in place.
Jennie sighed, staring at the old music box stood on her desk; a cherished relic from her childhood. She reached out and delicately wound the tiny key, setting in motion the familiar tune that had played a significant part in her life.
She fiddled with the key in her hand. All it took was a crank of the same key to get the little statue of the ballerina to turn.
Jennie sat alone in her dimly lit bedroom, the soft glow of a single lamp casting long shadows on the walls.
As the sweet melody filled the room, her gaze fixated on the ballerina figurine atop the music box. The porcelain dancer, with her delicate features and poised stance, seemed to embody a world of grace and elegance.
She couldn't stand it.
As a kid, when the ballerina twirled effortlessly on the music box, she had envisioned herself dancing with the same ethereal beauty and grace on some stage, her mom watching in the crowd.
It was a gift from her mom after all. Every night they'd sit together at the table while the background was filled with the very same tune. Back then, her obsession was sparked from the fact that she believed this was the only way to relive her mom.
It was a vision that had ignited her passion for ballet, an art form that promised to transform her into a living work of art. She had aspired to be that porcelain figurine brought to life, captivating audiences with every pirouette.
However, the reality of ballet was far from the enchanting illusion of the music box. The world of pliés, arabesques, and grand jetés was not just about the beauty of the dance, but the sweat, tears, and relentless effort that lay beneath.
It was early morning practices, strained muscles, and the constant pressure to attain perfection. It was the pain of injuries, the demands of a toxic lifestyle, and the depression from never being good enough.
She thought about the years of dedication and sacrifice she had invested in her pursuit of ballet. Her hands, calloused from countless hours at the barre, were a stark contrast to the porcelain delicacy of the music box's dancer.
Her hand clenched the key as her jaw ticked, all the while she watched the music box, her mind ablaze with frustration.
Having lived through the relentless training, the demanding instructors, and the physical toll it took on her body, the music box's tune felt like a mockery, a cruel joke. Ballet was an art, a brutal, beautiful, and unforgiving art.
