Page 7 of Healing Eleanor

By the time we reach my apartment, my chest feels a little lighter because I’m finally alone.

I pay the driver, and climb the stairs to my apartment, the echo of my footsteps trailing behind me. When I unlock the door, the familiar creak of the hinges greet me, followed by deafening silence. No one is waiting. Just me and the low whir of the fridge.

I toss my bag by the door and kick off my shoes, wincing as my sore toes brush the floor. Every part of me aches. My muscles from hours of dancing and my nerves from dinner with my mother.

I turn off the main light and pad into the kitchen for a glass of water. As the faucet drips, my mind drifts back to Scarlett. I’d give anything to feel even a fraction of the love she gets from Mom. Just once.

Water in hand, I slip into my bedroom and sit on the edge of my bed. City lights flicker through my window while distant traffic hums below. I reach for my journal in my nightstand drawer. The leather cover is worn, and the pages are half-filled with scribbles and thoughts I can’t say out loud.

I open to a blank page and stare at it for a moment before writing:

Opening night of Giselle: Survived. Barely. Mom was… well, Mom. Scarlett was polite. Edward didn’t show… figures. I danced with everything I had, but somehow I still felt invisible. Like I wasn’t enough. Maybe if I get that promotion, Mom will finally have something to boast about. Maybe then she’ll see my worth.

I set the journal aside and head across the hall to my small bathroom, ready to wash away the remnants of the day. I climb back into bed, pull the blanket over my legs, and switch off the lamp. The room slips into darkness.

Tomorrow is waiting.

And with it, whatever pieces I’m brave enough to pick up.

3

Principal at a Price

Eleanor

Morning light leaks through the slats of my blinds, painting gold stripes across the ceiling. For a moment, I just lie there, staring at the cream paint peeling above me. My limbs are heavy, and my mind is more chaotic than the city outside.

I can’t stop thinking about dinner with Mom and Scarlett last night. I tossed and turned all night, overthinking every possible moment. ‘Why didn’t I just stand up for myself?’ or ‘Was I being rude? Is that why I wasn’t included in the conversation? Should I have tried harder to connect with them?’

I know the answer to at least one of those questions, and it’s no, I couldn’t have tried harder. I always come last to them. My successes—or lack thereof—is usually overshadowed by whatever Edward and Scarlett are doing. Until I become a principal dancer, I’m not worthy of Mom’s praises.

Moments later, I rise and get ready for the day. I repack my dance bag with all the usual necessities: extra tights, rosin, blister tape, and a snack. Once I’m ready, I slip on my shoes and coat, grab my breakfast sandwich, and head toward the studio.

The walk to the Metropolitan Theatre of Ballet is a blur of horns, heels, and that thin film of early spring fog that clings to everything. The city is chaotically peaceful this early in the morning. Sunlight glistens off brownstones and glass towers. Dog walkers tug on leashes, trying not to spill the coffee in their other hand. Street vendors begin rolling out their carts, the scent of fresh bagels lingering in the air. I put my earbuds in, cutting off the world around me. The music from Giselle fills my ears, and my thoughts settle on tonight’s performance.

When I step inside the theater, the air shifts, raising goosebumps on my arms. The familiar scent of rosin and worn marley floors ground me as I make my way down the corridor toward the studio for warm-ups. I pull the headphones from my ears and tuck them away into the side pocket of my dance bag.

Inside the studio, Sofia’s already at the barre, her leg extended in a perfect développé, her body moving with the ease of someone who has spent years mastering the language of muscle and breath. Her curls are in a tight, neat bun, not a single strand of her dark hair out of place.

I toss my bag next to hers and bend down to gather my pointe shoes. “Hey, Sofia,” I say, as I begin to tie the ribbons. “Ready for night two?”

She stands straighter, a wide smile spreading across her face. “Absolutely.” She grabs a towel and runs it behind her neck. “Performing Myrtha gives me a reason to lure men to their deaths.” She laughs. “What’s better than that?”

I giggle, moving toward the barre. “You know, it was nice watching Julian dance himself to death,” I say, standing in first position. “Too bad I had to make him stop.”

Sofia stands to join me. “I know, right? At least we get to watch it for a few more weeks until he’s promoted,” She scoffs.

I whip around to face her. “He got the promotion?” I ask, devastated.

I deserved that promotion.

She shrugs. “I heard a few of the other girls talking about it. I wouldn’t be surprised if it’s true.”

My stomach sinks. Another season just as a soloist. Proving myself to Mom feels more out of reach than ever. How can I show her my worth if I’m never given a real shot? I’m already dancing a principal role, for goodness’ sake—I should’ve had a chance.

The studio door creaks open, and the sight of polished Capezios silences the room. Every head subtly faces the mirror, their postures snapping into perfect alignment, ready for instruction.

Soren.