Dance to This [kth]

e l e v e n

𝐀𝐂𝐓 𝐈𝐈
ミ★
eleven
❝guilty calls❞
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The light flickers in the locker room when I push the dial upwards. The room is empty and filled with neutral painted walls and barren lockers. The tiles are randomized with different shades of white: egg shell, cream, vanilla, ivory. I am still as I stare blankly ahead of me. The only instance of variation in color in the room is from a couple of dancers' bags, which are scattered sparsely on the small benches. I tighten my grip on the strap against my shoulder and slowly evolve towards a locker.

I can't hear much from how loudly my heart is beating, but the low hum of the freshly lit bulbs above me sizzle in my ear like a noisy house fly. I release a deep breath; it seems like I continuously do this to appease my nerves. Hypotheticals as to what will happen when I enter the audition room are replaying in my head; I feel like I shouldn't be doing this. Each step I take towards a locker is a forced one. I'm walking on egg shells.

My skin is tingling from the cold touch of the locker when I pull it open. The compartment squeaks loudly and echoes in the quiet room; I glance around sheepishly and blow out another anxious breath. What am I doing here? I feel detached, yet overwhelmingly invested in this idealized reality. My body feels weak and I'm trembling when I place my small bag in the locker. I glance at the mirror— it is cracked and missing a piece. There are fingerprint smudges against it.

It isn't the imperfections of the mirror that I am concerned about; it is the reflection staring back at me. Who is she? What have I done to the girl I once knew? Did I ever know myself? I frown at my reflection, and watch as my lips curve downward and as my eyes sadden. This girl is dull and scared; meek and fearful. I straighten my posture and bring my hand to my face like it is an inspection tool. Smile, I say to myself. I do. Why don't my eyes smile back?

I'm alone for what seems like hours into the night, but it is just enough time for me to secure my hair in a bun. I check the time, and there is five minutes left until I am required to go up there. I will take my time. My heart drops to my stomach when the familiar distant sound of a L'ange de Noël instrumental fills the otherwise empty space.

"Hey," Jimin startles me as he pushes open the locker room door.

The text I sent him earlier indicating my decision to audition went unanswered, but given he found me down here, I can safely assume he read it.

I give a small smile at the sight of his friendly, flushed face. His light, styled hair is damp from a gleam of sweat, and his crisp white shirt hugs against him; I assume that he finished his solo audition. He looks nervous, but nevertheless I can tell he is excited and impatient. If I wasn't so preoccupied with the misery I see in my reflection, I think I'd be more worried for him than myself.