Page 28 of Healing Eleanor

I’m not finished. There’s at least one other person out there who sees potential in me. That tiny flicker of hope catches like dry kindling, and flares up so suddenly it almost burns.

I swing my legs out of bed and pad to the living room, grabbing my laptop from the coffee table. The cushions dip beneath me as I curl onto the couch, balancing the laptop across my knees. If I’m going to move to Hollingford, I need to act fast.

I type into the search bar: apartments near Hollingford Ballet Company.

Most of the listings are either way out of my budget or too far from the studio to be practical. Still, I keep scrolling, chewing my thumbnail, scanning every square foot and rental price like my future depends on it. Because well… it technically does.

After an hour of searching, I find one.

A small studio in the historic district. About twenty minutes from the company by car. The photos show a warm space with exposed brick and old hardwood floors that look like they have stories to tell. It’s definitely smaller than my current place, but it’s clean, and I can make it work.

A small smile forms on my cheeks as I let myself picture it. A new city. A clean slate. No rumors following me, no whispered conversations when I walk into a room. Just dancing and the quiet, stubborn hope that maybe, this time, I can prove I’m enough.

A familiar voice creeps into my mind, soft but prominent.

You need to be on point. You need to be perfect. How can you do that when you’re still the size of a whale?

The voice isn’t wrong. This will most likely be the only chance I get, and I can’t afford to mess it up. No softness, no indulgence, no room for anything less than precision.

Tomorrow will be different. I’ll stick to the necessities only, cut the extras, add more cardio, and finally get some real sleep. I’ll show up to that audition so lean, so controlled, so poised that they’ll see it in me the moment I step into the studio—discipline, carved into every line of my body.

I click ‘Reply’ to Kasper’s email and type out my response. Polite, professional, practiced, and poised, just like my mother taught me.

I hold my breath, fingers trembling as I hit send.

Hope and hunger knot inside me, equal parts promise and poison.

The next morning I don’t need an alarm.

My body jolts awake before the sun has even decided to grace the sky with its presence. The adrenaline from last night hasn’t faded, and after four hours of sleep, I calcified it into purpose. My heart is already beating faster than it should be.

The floor is cold under my feet. I roll my neck, my muscles stiff, like they’ve been bracing for impact all night. I never thought twenty-four was particularly old, but maybe I need to start stretching before bed. I take a few sips of water, then pull on leggings, a worn sports bra, and runners, and tie my hair into a high ponytail before getting to work.

I start with a light jog, letting my muscles warm up. When I get back to my apartment, I don’t let myself rest for long, just enough to stretch my quads and change into tights and a leotard.

Next comes center work.

I drag my old portable barre into the middle of my tiny living room and turn on a mix of soft piano and contemporary ballet tracks.

I don’t have a mirror, just the dark reflection of my television. My eyes bore into it, adjusting lines, hyper-aware of my turnout, posture, the way my rib cage moves with every breath. I hold balances longer than necessary, willing myself to feel steady.

I need to be perfect, controlled, deserving.

Eventually, I stop at eleven-thirty in the morning, my hands trembling from overexertion. I make green tea and sit on the floor with my legs stretched out in front of me. My knees are slightly swollen, but that’s normal. I’ll ice them later.

I’m done being lazy. With a real opportunity around the corner, I need to take my food logs more seriously and structure my workouts around my schedule at Forma. I’m thankful I’m only working part-time. I can add jogs to my routine and restart my center work at home. My fresh start is so close I can almost taste it.

Later that afternoon, I walk into Forma with my hoodie pulled over my head, and my dance bag slung over my shoulder.

I usually don’t work the night shift, but lucky for me, I got scheduled because Claire caught a stomach bug. At least I won’t be working here much longer. Well, hopefully.

I’ve already done most of my training for the day, but when Paul asked me to cover Claire’s shift, I signed up for Adrian’s class that’s scheduled an hour from now. It’s an open movement class that’s less structured, has more freedom, and provides a good excuse to stay limber.

After a couple sign-ins, and finishing up some schedules for next week, I step inside the quiet studio. Most dancers have filtered out, and are heading home for the day, leaving only a few people who work day jobs. The late afternoon light casts long, gold edged shadows across the studio floor.

“Hey,” I say, tugging my hoodie off, leaving me in a cropped tank top and leggings. “Is it okay if I still join?”

Adrian lifts his gaze, a soft smile crossing his face. “Always.”