#ch.lf

BTS:

You discover early on that “no” isn’t a word you particularly like—not unless you’re the one using it.

It’s movie night with mom’s eighth copy of Swan Lake, this time courtesy of the Royal Ballet and this time somehow compelling enough that you comment on how pretty and sad Margot Fonteyn looks. Your parents share a look and your mother, heart nearly thumping out of her chest, emergency ejects from her spot on the couch to make a phone call.

She’d made a good call, so to speak—you take to ballet swiftly and your instructors make note of your well-matched physique and willingness to learn, the latter of which catches your parents by welcome surprise.

Your ego inflates indefinitely and you make enemies out of most your peers, extracurricular or otherwise. But then, you’ve always been a prideful creature—the corps, school, and every social interaction has only ever been a stepping stone.

You jump at the opportunity to apprentice abroad, but huddled amongst hundreds of other hungry hopefuls you find yourself very quickly eclipsed. Your will wavers and your eyes wander.

What 16-year-old Ryubin might have labeled a shameful return home you label a triumph. You strangled that little asshole and left her to rot in a dreary London catacomb, resurrected now as (*deep inhale*) “Been”.

Even if you missed out on the Prix, you picked up some new tricks to bring back and share. Mom is gracious enough to tuck her disappointment away, force a smile, and make another phone call for you.

It’s another arduous climb from there but you’re well taken care of at home and your newfound godlike benevolence makes swallowing people’s shit this time around a lot easier.

You swear to cut down—figuratively, of course—every little asshole that reminds you of you. Gaze fixed on the mirror and the troupe of warriors reflected behind you, it’s a goddamn battlefield.