Mirelle didn't go to Studio 7 the next morning.
Instead, she slipped into one of the smaller, quieter practice rooms at the far end of the building—the kind no one bothered with unless they were desperate or hiding. She was both.
The space was dim, its mirrors aged and edges marked with tape from years ago. But she needed solitude more than anything.
She turned on the speaker and started practicing her solo segment.
Again.
And again.
And again.
But no matter how many times she did it, something was always off. Her lines didn't feel long enough. Her turns fell short. Her arm wavered where it should have floated. She knew this routine was Trishia's before—a role meant for someone taller, more seasoned, more visible.
Her chest burned as the music cut off mid-sequence. She stood in front of the mirror, watching herself. Her reflection looked strained, sweaty, nothing like the girl who went viral a few nights ago.
Why can't I do this? she thought, jaw trembling.
Why now? Why not when it matters?
Tears fell silently as she dropped to the floor. Frustration, fatigue, and humiliation sank in all at once.
She let herself cry.
Then forced herself to stop.
After a short rest, she cleaned up, fixed her bun again, and headed to the main rehearsal studio for the company-wide practice. It was already buzzing when she arrived. Dancers were stretching, joking, positioning.
And Rafe was there.
Sitting in the corner like a shadow, arms folded, eyes unreadable.
She didn't dare meet his gaze. She had decided not to train under him anymore and she will uphold that.
The rehearsal began.
She moved into her place in the corps. The music played. Her part came.
Mirelle danced, holding every position with precision, every transition with effort. She gave it everything she had.
But when her solo segment passed, the room didn't echo with silence or approval.
Instead, the air buzzed with murmurs.
She heard it. Felt it. A faint ripple of whispers and shifting feet.
Trishia's gaze was sharp, cutting into her from across the floor like a blade. Mirelle felt every ounce of it.
The choreographer clapped once, loudly.
"Stop."
Everyone froze.
"None of you are hitting the lines right," she snapped. "It's like you're all dancing different ballets. This isn't amateur hour."
Her eyes swept across the room—briefly landing on Mirelle—before moving on.
"Again. From the top. And this time, look like you know what you're doing."
The dancers returned to their places. Mirelle tightened her muscles. She didn't look at Rafe, didn't glance at Trishia.
But inside, her frustration simmered.
She had one shot at proving she deserved this.
And it was slipping through her fingers like sand.
After the final run-through, Mirelle slumped near the water station, wiping sweat from her brow and gulping down water as exhaustion weighed heavy on her limbs. Her legs trembled faintly, and her neck ached from the tension she carried through every movement.
Trishia wasn't alone when she approached.
Two other dancers trailed behind her like wolves circling prey. Kaia, as always, kept her distance—playing the perfect sister act for everyone else to see.
"Shitty dance," Trishia muttered with a sneer. "Even the mirrors were wincing."
Mirelle set her bottle down, trying to walk past, but Kaia blocked her path.
"We could all see it. You were struggling," Kaia added sweetly, her voice sugar-laced venom.
Mirelle stood tall, jaw clenched. "I'm doing my best. That's more than enough."
Trishia stepped closer—too close. Her fingers gripped Mirelle's chin, tilting her face up, hard enough to sting. The other two dancers boxed them in, casually leaning in just enough to block the view from anyone across the room.
"You only got my part because you sold your body like a cheap whore," Trishia hissed. "Your popularity will die. And when it does, you'll go back to being the floor we walk on."
With a shove, Trishia released her and turned, the others following like shadows.
Mirelle's jaw quivered, but she didn't cry. Not in front of them. Not in front of anyone.
She waited until the rehearsal space cleared.
Then she stayed.
She practiced longer.
Until her body ached and her legs shook beneath her.
Until her muscles screamed.
Only then did she finally go home.
The warmth of the bath didn't soothe her the way it usually did. Her thoughts raced. Her throat burned from swallowing everything down.
A knock came at her door. Her mother.
"Come to dinner," Celeste said.
Mirelle dried herself quickly and dressed, dragging her feet to the dining room.
Celeste was already seated. Kaia was on her phone, lazily flipping through something, unbothered.
"How's the solo practice going?" Celeste asked, without looking up.
Mirelle hesitated. "It's... going."
Celeste raised an eyebrow. "You know it's not. Don't lie. You're barely holding that minute-long piece together. Nothing like Kaia's full performance. How disappointing."
Mirelle flinched. Her hands clenched on the edge of the table.
"Imagine what your father would think," Celeste added with a slow shake of her head.
Mirelle gritted her teeth. Her father's name still echoed in her mind like a slap. That was always Celeste's dagger—wielded so casually, so effectively. She hated how her mother used him like a ghost to guilt her.
But she said nothing. Not a word. Her tongue pressed against her teeth, biting back everything she wanted to scream.Then she softened slightly, reached out a hand, and touched her daughter's.
"I only say this because I worry about you. But honestly, if you can't handle this much pressure, maybe you're not ready. You always give up halfway. Just like when you tried fencing. And piano. And painting."
Mirelle said nothing. Her tongue was heavy with all the comebacks she kept swallowing. She stared at her plate, knuckles white.
"You're lucky Kaia isn't gloating. She's too graceful for that. You could learn something from her poise," Celeste added with a clipped tone.
Still, Mirelle didn't say a word. She only nodded, once, sharp and mechanical.
Then excused herself quietly, each step aching with the weight of held-back words.
She returned to her room.
There, she let the tears fall.
—
The next morning came far too quickly. Mirelle dressed in silence, pulling her clothes over a body still sore from yesterday's bruising rehearsal. She didn't go to Studio 7 again.
Instead, she found another empty corner of the academy—a tucked-away studio barely larger than a classroom. She didn't need eyes on her. Not now. Not yet.
She stretched in silence. Her body moved on autopilot, but her mind replayed every insult, every look, every jab that had cut too deep to shrug off. Kaia's disinterest. Celeste's thinly-veiled contempt. Trishia's hands on her face.
Then her thoughts paused.
The door creaked open. Mirelle's eyes lifted to the mirror.
Kaia stood at the threshold, dressed immaculately, that same serene smile fixed on her face—the mask she wore for the world.
"Mirelle," she said softly.
Mirelle said nothing. Her hands stayed flat on the floor as she folded into a stretch.
Kaia stepped inside, closing the door behind her. "Are you okay? You missed warm-up."
Still, Mirelle didn't respond.
Kaia's voice turned syrupy sweet. "You shouldn't isolate yourself. People talk. They think you're... not taking things seriously."
Mirelle finally looked up, just for a second. The glint in Kaia's eyes didn't match her voice.
"I'm fine," Mirelle said, flat and tired.
Kaia smiled, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Of course. Just checking in."
And with that, she left.
Mirelle exhaled slowly, stretching deeper into the floor, the burn in her muscles nothing compared to the fire rising in her chest.