I went home, pulled an old envelope from a drawer, and wrote “LILY – BALLET” across the front in thick Sharpie.
Every shift, every crumpled bill or handful of change that made it through the laundry went inside.
I skipped meals, drank burnt coffee from our dying machine, told my stomach to be quiet.
Most days, dreams were louder than hunger.
The studio looked like the inside of a cupcake.
Pink walls, glittering decals, inspirational quotes in curly vinyl: “Dance with your heart,” “Leap and the net will appear.”
The lobby was filled with moms in leggings and dads with neat haircuts, all smelling like good soap—not like garbage trucks.
I sat small in the corner, pretending I didn’t exist.
I had come straight from work, still carrying the faint scent of banana peels and disinfectant.
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