The first thing I saw when my eyes fluttered open wasn't the ceiling.
It was a white light. Cold. Sharp. Cruel.
Then came the sound—a soft, repetitive beeping beside me.
Beep. Beep. Beep.
Where the hell am I?
I blinked hard, once… twice… until the room finally came into focus. A nurse in pale blue scrubs hovered above me, her eyes wide in surprise when she noticed I was awake.
"Oh! You're awake," she said, her accent crisp and polite, like she had practiced that line a hundred times.
"What… happened?" My voice cracked. My throat burned like sandpaper.
She leaned closer, smiling in that practiced nurse way that said everything was fine even when it wasn't. "You collapsed at the theater. Someone rushed you here."
Collapsed?
Then it hit me like a spotlight.
The stage. The lights. The blurred faces of the audience. My chest tightening like it was wrapped in barbed wire. My vision spinning out of control. Then—black.
I tried to sit up, but my head throbbed like a bass drum. "The Prima Night…" I whispered to no one in particular. That night was supposed to be my moment. My breakthrough. Years of sleepless nights, blistered feet, and aching bones had led to that single performance.
But instead of thunderous applause, I got this—white walls, an IV drip, and a heart monitor. Perfect.
"Ms.Celestine," a man's voice said gently. Not him. Not the person I wanted to hear. Just a doctor stepping into the room, clipboard in hand. His white coat looked too clean. Too calm.
"How are you feeling?" he asked.
I opened my mouth to answer, but before the words could come out, I shifted under the sheets—and froze.
I couldn't feel my right leg.
No. No. No.
I peeled back the blanket with shaky fingers. My right leg was wrapped in layers of thick white bandages, a cast locking it still like a prisoner.
My heart slammed against my ribs. "Why can't I feel my leg?" I asked, my voice rising.
The doctor moved closer, his expression softening in the way people look at a bomb about to go off. "You had a bad fall during the performance. The impact fractured your right leg."
Fractured.
The word echoed like a curse in my skull.
"You'll need to rest," he continued. "No weight on that leg. No rehearsals for now."
I laughed—because if I didn't, I was going to cry so hard the earth might split open. "No rehearsals? Are you kidding me? I have upcoming shows. I can't just—"
"You need to rest," he repeated, firmer this time. "If you don't, you might not dance again."
The room tilted slightly. I gripped the edge of the blanket like it could keep me from drowning. "And if I rest? Will I be able to dance again?"
His hesitation was louder than his words. "We'll see."
We'll see.
Two words that felt like a dagger.
I stared at the ceiling as panic clawed at my throat. No, no, no. This isn't happening. This can't be how it ends.
My fingers fumbled for my phone on the bedside table. I dialed the company's number—our ballerina management. My hands were shaking so hard I almost dropped the phone.
"Hello?"
It was the head of the company. Perfect.
"It's me," I croaked. "I—I couldn't finish the show. I—"
The voice on the other end wasn't warm. It wasn't kind. It was sharp, slicing through my already-cracked heart.
"You ruined the show," they said flatly. "Do you know how many people came to see you? Sponsors. Critics. And you fainted."
"I didn't mean to," I whispered. My chest was tight again, but this time it wasn't from performing. It was from breaking.
"It doesn't matter. You're no longer the main star."
The line went dead.
For a second, I just stared at the screen. Then I laughed. That bitter kind of laugh—the one that tastes like salt and heartbreak.
So this is how dreams end. Not with a standing ovation, but with a flat-lined call.
---
A week later, I was discharged.
My leg still ached. My heart hurt worse.
I sat on the edge of the bed in the small apartment near the theater, staring at the crutches leaning against the wall like silent witnesses to my downfall.
The phone rang. I already knew who it was before I even picked it up.
"Hello?"
"Rica," my mother's voice came through the line, crisp and sharp like a blade. Not a hint of warmth. Not even relief. "How was the performance? Did you make us proud?"
I laughed under my breath. "Yeah, sure. I made the audience very entertained—by collapsing on stage."
Silence. Then, "You're joking, right?"
"Nope."
I expected her to ask if I was okay. If I was hurt. If I needed someone. Anything. But instead—
"Have you been eating too much? I told you, you need to maintain your body if you want to stay in shape."
My grip on the phone tightened. "Seriously? That's your concern right now?"
"You need discipline, Rica. You can't let yourself—"
"Are you even going to ask if I'm okay?" I cut her off, my voice trembling.
She didn't answer. Of course she didn't.
This is the thing about love that isn't really love: it doesn't see your wounds. It only sees your usefulness.
I stared at the ceiling as her words blurred into meaningless noise. My entire childhood had been a long audition for her approval. Every turn, every leap, every blister—I did it all hoping she'd finally look at me the way she looked at my brother.
But she never did.
And tonight, even when I was broken, she still didn't.
My vision blurred. My chest felt heavy again. "You know what, Mom? I'm going home."
"What? Are you out of your mind?" Her voice sharpened. "After everything? You're just giving up? You're so—"
Click.
I hung up.
The tears came fast, hot and relentless. I pressed my palms against my face, but it didn't stop the sound.
I had worked my entire life for this stage.
And now I was just… falling off it.
I dragged myself up and opened the closet. My hands moved on autopilot, pulling clothes, stuffing them into a suitcase. The zippers screamed against the silence.
London was supposed to be the place where I shined.
But what's a spotlight without a dancer?
I glanced at the crutches one last time. "Guess it's just you and me," I muttered bitterly.
This wasn't how dreams were supposed to end.
But sometimes, they don't end like a grand finale.
Sometimes, they end with a quiet exit.
And tonight, mine began with a broken leg, a broken stage…
and a heart that no one bothered to ask about.