#int.nian

She’s not nervous. That’s not the right word. Anxious? Frustrated? 

Adrenaline is thrumming through her stomach and the beats of the song are passing through her head, her hands are dusted with chalk. She’s ready. 

She doesn’t want to do this.

But she knows she must. Knows the punishment, knows the futility of refusing. Even for such a claim as hating the song, hating the audience, hating the flower that she had crushed underfoot.

But there is Nian, face impassive, but this is her last chance. Her only chance. (And how she hates having to ask) Quietly, she goes to tap him on the shoulder, the puts her hands together and looks up at him with desperation in her eyes. 

“Nian. Please don’t make me do this. I’ll dance, just not poi, just not the fire. I can’t. Not in this imitation of a costume, to this music. Please.”