One-two-three-four. One-two-three-four.
I tie off the front ribbons in elaborate bows—decorative and functional, pretty and practical. The mirror shows me a girl who looks almost innocent. Almost whole. Almost like she belongs on a stage instead of a battlefield.
The illusion would be more convincing without the blood still caked under my fingernails.
Later, I tell myself.
Deal with that later.
The ballet shoes are special for today—mismatched, like always, but in colors that complement the costume. One teal blue, the shade of deep ocean water. One soft pink, the color of cherry blossoms in spring. The ribbons are longer than usual, designed to wrap all the way up my calves, past my knees, to my upper thighs, where they tie in delicate bows at the front.
I sit on the bench and begin the process.
Right foot first. Teal. Ocean.
The satin slides on like a second skin, molding to the shape of my foot, familiar as breathing. The ribbons wind up my leg in a spiral pattern—over, under, around, repeat—each wrap slightly tighter than the last until I can feel my pulse beating against the fabric.
Eight wraps to the knee.
Eight more to the thigh.
Even numbers.
Safe.
I tie the bow, adjust the loops until they're perfectly symmetrical, and move to the left foot.
Pink. Blossom. Ghost.
The same ritual. The same pattern. The same obsessive attention to detail that people mistake for craziness, but is really justcontrol.
This, I can control.
The tightness of the ribbons. The precision of the knots. The way the colors complement each other, mismatched but harmonious.
In a world where everything else is chaos, my body is mine.
My dance is mine.
My rituals are mine.
I stand, testing my weight on the reinforced pointe platforms. Pain radiates up through my toes—familiar, grounding, perfect. The corset restricts my breathing just enough to make each inhale deliberate. The skirt swishes around my thighs with every movement.
I look like a fairy tale.
I feel like a nightmare wearing a princess costume.
Same thing, probably.
Hair next.
I gather the pink strands—still slightly damp from the quick shower I took between classes—and pull them up into a high ponytail. A few pieces escape deliberately, framing my face in soft curls that I shape with practiced fingers. Heated styling tool, held for exactly four seconds on each section.
Even numbers.
Safe.
The makeup takes longer.
