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I bite my lip, then lick it. But it's no use, bowing my head toward my chest, I let out a silent sob, covering my hands with my face. My palms grow a pool of tears, and my chest fills with the most gratitude in the entire world.
This is it. This is really happening.
Once I gain my bearings, I lift my head, wiping my eyes. "Thank you. Thank you so much." I smile, tears streaming down my face. It's useless to attempt to wipe them away.
She smiles. "I'll see you in one year, Luna Lewis. Please don't disappoint me."
"I won’t. I promise, I won’t." I stand up, leaning over her desk to shake her hand. I walk out, when she calls my name.
She looks me up and down from head to toe. A small amount of irritation and disgust is in her eyes. "I expect you have been through a lot, but when you come back, I'm hoping your appearance will be much more… up to the standards for what we expect here?"
I run my hand through my hair, which has been air dried and lays in a mess down my back. Roman's bathroom was seriously lacking the necessities.
"Yes, I'm sorry. This isn't… I won't come back like this. I'm sorry."
She nods, taking me for my word.
I give her one more smile, and then I'm off. Excitement building in my chest. I feel like I'm going to explode.
I can't wait to tell Roman.
With two bags in hand, I walk back into Roman's apartment. The moment I open his wooden door, a waft of Roman hits me in the face. I smile, even though the apartment is empty. This place is a part of him, filled with bits and pieces of his life. I could stay in this apartment forever and be happy, surrounded by everything Roman.
After I left Julliard, I stopped to the next place on my mom's list. A small shop with dance uniforms, specifically ballet. I picked out a black leotard. Classy, delicate, feminine. The fabric is stretchy, light, and reminds me a lot of the leotard I had when I was little. That one was a baby pink, though. This one is black. Black as the night. It reminded me a lot of the night sky on the beach all those years ago. The moment I saw it, my finger clutching the soft fabric, I knew it was the one for me. This one has a tutu combined to it, a stark black lace that looks like ink. I bought a plain pink leotard too, for practice. The black one will be for my routine.
In one year.
At Julliard.
I also found my shoes. A light pink pointed shoe. I bought some ribbon to sew into them. It gives me the added stability as it wraps around my ankle. Trying them on at the store, my toes instantly felt sore from the pointed top. It's going to be hell getting back into it, but the constant heavy beat in my chest tells me this is the right choice.
What I'm doing is what I'mmeantto do.
After I bought my ballet shoes, I went to a small studio between Roman's apartment and Julliard. The owner was friendly, and after I told her a shortened version of my story, she was more than happy to lend me some studio time to practice. I don't need classes; I don't need a teacher. I need a place to practice, and music to practice with. Everything else will fall into place.
I bring my bags to the living room, setting them on the couch. Heading back to the kitchen, I open the drawers, looking for a pair of scissors. The counters are littered with dishes, the garbage bin overflowing with trash that Roman tossed in there yesterday in a rush.
I open every drawer, before I find them in the last one, right next to the tin foil.
Really, Roman?
His kitchen is nice, yet small. White cabinets and a creamy laminate countertop. I can tell when Roman moved in, he threw dishes in any which cupboard was the closest to him. That's definitely something I will be remedying soon.
Like, really soon.
With the scissors in hand, I head back to the couch. It's dark green, soft, and the moment I sit down on it, I sink into the cushions. The fabric is like a blanket, and I run my fingers across it, making the color turn from a dark green to a light green.
I open the plastic bag on the couch, sliding out the miniature sewing kit that I bought at a convenience store, and I get to work on my shoes. It's a long process, and not something a lot of people do. But to ensure there aren't injuries to your feet, I always make sure my shoes are perfect. I break them, hearing the shoes crack as I crack the soles. Sewing the ribbon into the insides of the shoes, I make sure the length is right, snipping the ends and letting the excess flutter to the floor. Picking up a slipper, I start scoring the pointe of the shoe. I've learned the hard way the difficulty of dancing with new, slippery pointed shoes. If they're scored, there's more traction while you dance.
Once the other shoe is done, I slip out of my clothes and try on my black leotard. It's tight. Tighter than anything I've worn in a long time, but it's perfect, molding to my waist and ribs in a tight hug. Grabbing my slippers, I slide the first one onto my foot. My toes cram into the top, and I wince as I snuggle them inside. I wrap the soft ribbon around my ankle, creating a small bow at the back of my calf. I repeat the same with my other foot, my heart beating out of my chest once I'm finished.
Standing up, my eyes fill with tears as I see my reflection on the patio window. My tall, slender form looks perfect, the black leotard making me look taller and even more slender than I really am. The sleeves are long and tight as they hug my thin arms. The back is a deep U, revealing most of my pale back. The shoes are stiff; it'll take a bit of practice to loosen them to my feet, but my prep helped. With a deep breath, I curl my foot, balancing up on my toes. My feet scream, the nails on my toes begging for mercy. Tears spring to my eyes, and I hold my breath as I hold my stance.
My hands go up above my head, stretching to the sky. The points of my fingers touch, and I stretch, feeling muscles awaken that haven't been moved in a long time.
I hear the lock on the door click, and the door swings open. I fall back to the soles of my feet, turning around and coming face to face with Roman. He has yellow and black heavy uniform pants on with suspenders over his shoulders. His white shirt is wet, damp with sweat and streaked in black. His face is streaked, too, with soot, or ash, I'm not sure. His fingers wrap around his matching coat, heavy as it drags on the ground. His fingers tighten around the neck of his jacket, his knuckles turning white as he watches me. There's a tiredness on his face, pure exhaustion lining his forehead. But his eyes…
His eyes are alit with a fire. So much determination in his gaze as he looks at me. Shock, happiness, love, heat, everything combined into his milk chocolate irises.
