Page 90 of Healing Eleanor

“Thank you for the ride,” she says, starting to slip out of the car.

“No problem,” I reply, then add, “Sleep well. We have a lot of work to do tomorrow.”

She grips her bag on her shoulder. “I know.” Her voice wavers slightly. “Sorry for being so… off today. I’ll do better tomorrow.”

I shake my head. “Just take care of yourself,” I say with conviction.

She only nods then closes the door, heading toward her apartment.

I sit there for a few moments, replaying our conversation in my head. She asked about my faith—that was good. And I’d opened up about Daria and Mama without choking or stumbling. Maybe—just maybe—God’s weaving something bigger into whatever’s happening between me and Eleanor.

17

Plagued with Perfection

Eleanor

I can’t dance Odette and Odile. I just can’t.

My confidence has been steadily eroding over the past two agonizing weeks. Every morning when I wake, my empty fridge and bare kitchen cabinets mock me, reminding me of what I have to give up for failing to be excellent. My punishment.

Rehearsals are a disaster, and I know Nik notices, even if he doesn’t say anything. So I up my green tea intake and add energy drinks into my routine, hoping for some kind of boost. But they only carry me so far.

I try swallowing my pride, I really do. Last Thursday, I even practiced the pas de deux with Gabriel. But mid-lift, his shoulder gave out, and I crashed to the floor. The heat of embarrassment burned through me so fiercely, I was shocked the studio didn’t ignite. He swore it was from an old injury, but in my head I heard Soren’s voice. It was almost like watching a whale up there.

So I cut back more. An extra half mile in the mornings. Skipped dinners, and just a handful of snacks and drinks to get me through the day.

It’s getting to me. My body is weaker, slower, the edges of exhaustion sharper. But I love the control more. I can’t erase the disappointment on Nik’s face, or the confusion in Lily’s when I decline lunch, or magically earn my mother’s approval. But this—this one thing—I can master. And that is enough.

Though there are times when I catch Nik just watching me… and his words from a couple of days ago echo in my head. I trust God with what I can’t control.

They linger beneath my skin like an itch I can’t scratch. I hate the part of me that even wonders what it feels like to do the same.

Theoretically, I can’t justify that there’s someone out there for me—let alone a God. Because if there is, then why am I here? Why am I stuck in this body that will never be perfect and in a life that feels like punishment more than purpose?

Plus, I haven’t even done anything in my life that’d make God want to love me. If anything, I’m convinced He won’t even want to like me. I’m plagued with perfectionism, chained to standards I wasn’t sure I can achieve, but stubborn enough to drive myself into the ground trying. No one—and I mean no one—will want to love someone like that.

As I struggle through bourrées en pointe, glissades, and assemblés, I silently thank anyone who might be listening—even the big Man upstairs—when Nik finally calls for a lunch break. I started off this morning strong, but with every passing combination, I unraveled. My legs are heavier and my focus is starting to thin out. All I can think about is the energy drink waiting in my bag, promising a hollow surge of strength to drag me through the rest of rehearsal.

Nik’s gaze never left me: steady, disappointed, and almost annoyed. Somehow his stare cut deeper than failing my épaulement. Somewhere between rehearsals and those quiet drives home, I realize his approval matters to me more than I want to admit.

Nik claps his hands once, sharp enough to gather everyone’s attention. “I know I just called for lunch, but before you all go, Lily has something she wants to share.”

Almost on cue, Lily strides into the studio, balancing two large cases of cupcakes piled high with pink frosting and sprinkles. A glittering golden headband sits crookedly on her head, declaring in bold letters: birthday girl.

My breath hitches, anxiety bubbling hot and fast in my chest. Without thinking, my fingers move to my wrists, searching for the comfort of my shawl, a sleeve, anything to hide in. But it isn’t there. I’m exposed, and have to swallow it down.

Lily wobbles toward the front of the room, grinning, while Gabriel helps steady one of the cupcake cases in her arms.

“It’s Lily’s birthday,” Nik announces warmly. “Let’s sing and have a small celebration together.”

The room breaks into cheerful voices. I only mouth the words, my throat tight, the sound refusing to come out. Somehow, that silence stings more than if I stayed quiet on purpose. Lily deserves more than empty lips on her birthday. She’s my friend—probably my best friend—and I can’t even give her that. What kind of friend does that make me? A horrible one, clearly.

When the melody fades, Lily beams, and she, Gabriel, and Dillon begin handing out cupcakes. Frosting swirls, sprinkles glitter, and laughter overflows. Naturally, I stay near the back, praying for the first time in my life that I’ll vanish into thin air. Like a groundhog burrowing deep underground, unseen, unreachable. But reality is rarely accommodating.

“Eleanor!” Lily exclaims, her golden headband bobbing as she bounces toward me. “Here, have one.” She holds out a cupcake.

I have no choice. If I don’t accept it, I’ll be letting Lily down. On her birthday, of all days. My hand trembles as I reach out, apprehension flooding my chest like water rising in a glass, filling me to the brim.