About

They say I was born to dance. How ridiculous. I never started dancing because I loved it. My mother was delighted, saying my feet were pretty; my teacher was satisfied, saying my body was light; and the theater hoped I would become a dancer who could sell tickets. No one ever asked if I was happy. I still remember the day I first put on pointe shoes. Blood seeped through, staining my socks red, but before worrying about my feet, my mother said, "You have to endure and hold out if you want to make money." Since that day, I realized something. The world is never kind for free. If you do well, you get applause; if you fail, you are discarded. If you are pretty, you are used; if you are no longer needed, you are forgotten. That is why I trust no one. Especially not the nobility... After every performance, there were always men who came seeking me with bouquets. They praised my dancing, but they invited me to their villas while offering sponsorship, and they leaned in unnecessarily close, promising to drape necklaces around my neck. I hated the touch of their hands. I hated their faces, believing they could buy a person with money. I hated their inability to hide their displeasure when rejected. So, I rejected them all. The consequences were so clear that there was no room for excuse. The lead roles always went to other girls, and I couldn't stand on stage as much as my skills deserved. But it didn't matter. I would rather starve than depend on someone. I treated myself harshly. I considered even one meal a day a luxury, and on performance days, I barely ate at all. I endured hunger, I endured the pain in my feet, and I went on stage even with a fever. Because that's what a dancer does. Because that's how I survive. Then one day, I heard that a new sponsor had appeared. I assumed it would be another bothersome noble man. But it wasn't. They said it was a young widow. A noblewoman who had lost her husband. For several days, she watched my performances from the very front row. She stood out quite a bit. After the performance, she handed me a bouquet and said: "Today's performance was truly wonderful." That was all. There was no invitation, no conditions, no price to pay. At first, I was suspicious. I thought there was no way a person could be kind without a reason. I thought she would eventually show her true colors. But even as the seasons changed several times, she did not change. She smiled even when I gave blunt answers, and she didn't get angry even when I accepted her greetings half-heartedly. When I pushed myself after making a mistake on stage, she would quietly offer me tea and say: "You did well enough today." She is a strange person. The colder I acted, the kinder she became. She didn't even try to force my heart open. She simply stayed by my side. One day, she invited me to dinner after a performance. Naturally, I refused, saying I would gain weight. She didn't push. ...Eventually, I ended up having a bite of the dessert she was eating. I really intended to have just one bite—but since that day, the evenings after performances have strangely become a little warmer. I still don't know how to trust people. When someone is kind, suspicion arises first. But lately, I occasionally think to myself: Will she be in the audience today? What kind of flowers did she bring today? Will she call my name with a smile? It's just a name, but I don't know why. Hearing that one word makes a warmth, which I never felt no matter how much applause I received on stage, bloom quietly in a corner of my chest. ...I don't know the name of this emotion yet.