POV: Lee Ji-hoon
I shouldn't still be here.
The studio lights were dimmed, making everything look softer.
Others had left almost an hour ago complaining about sore muscles, laughing about something I didn't catch.
My slippers drag softly against the floor.
Step.
Slide.
Turn.
My rhythm is slightly off. I can hear it, even without music.
I ignore that too.
Usually, this is the part where I settle in. Where everything else fades out and it's just movement, timing and breath.
But tonight, something's off.
My right ankle throbs the second I sink into a plié.
I stay there too long, hoping it'll loosen.
The pain sharpens instead quick, precise before dulling into something heavier.
I straighten anyway.
It's fine.
It's always "fine."
I shift my weight, testing it. The pressure feels wrong, slightly unstable, but still usable.
That's enough.
It has to be.
Because stopping isn't really a choice
No one says that outright, but it's understood.
You fall behind, someone else steps in.
You take a break, someone else keeps going.
And by the time you come back, if you even can, your spot is already gone.
So you don't stop.
You adjust.
You hide it.
You make it work.
I walk to the center of the room.
For a second, I just stand there.
Breathing.
Waiting for my body to catch up to where my mind already is.
There was no music. The speaker had been broken for weeks, and no one seemed in a hurry to fix it. At this point, I didn't need it anyway.
I knew the counts.
I knew the rhythm.
My body remembered even when everything else didn't.
I inhaled slowly, steadying myself.
One.
Two.
Three.
Move.
My arms lifted first slow and steady, like they were a little heavier than usual. I pushed through it anyway.
The rest of my body followed, falling into the familiar sequence I'd repeated so many times it didn't need thought anymore.
I wasn't thinking. I didn't have to. My body just moved, step by step, like it already knew exactly what came next.
Turn.
Extend.
Hold.
The moment I rose, the pain came back.
Stronger this time.
My ankle wavered for half a second.
I keep going.
Again.
This time faster.
One turn became two. Two became three.
I start breathing harder, uneven and ragged. I try to adjust my steps, but it just makes it worse.
There's a rhythm I'm missing tonight, and the more I chase it, the further it slips.
I turn again, a little too quickly, and when I land, the pain spikes hard enough that I have to force myself not to react.
I stay upright.
Barely.
My chest is heaving, and my throat feels tight for no reason.
I hate this. Not the pain. The hesitation.
The way my body is starting to second-guess something it used to do without thinking.
I push into the next sequence anyway.
What else am I supposed to do?
Stop?
Sit down and admit I can't even get through something this simple?
No.
I'd rather keep going until something finally gives.
At least that would make sense.
I'm in the middle of another turn when I feel it. Something's different.
You know it before you see it, like the air's changed.
I slow, just a little, then stop.
There's someone in the doorway.
No idea how long he's been there.
Long enough
He isn't moving.
Just watching.
For a second, neither of us says anything.
He doesn't look like he belongs here. Everything about him, the suit, the posture.
The way he stands so still it feels… deliberate.
Like he's not just standing there.
Like he's watching.
And then I realize who it is.
Of course I do.
Han Seo-jun, the pianist everyone talks about.
The one who never misses.
Never slips.
Never feels
"You're off-tempo."
His voice breaks the silence catching me off guard.
I straighten without thinking, irritation rising before I can stop it.
"The studio's closed," I say. My voice comes out rougher than I meant it to. "How did you even get in here?"
He doesn't answer.
He just walks in like it's nothing.
His eyes move over me once, quick and precise, then drop briefly His eyes move over me once, quick, like he's taking something in, and then drop for a second to my right foot.
It's quick.
But not quick enough.
I notice.
He saw it.
I shift my weight a little, even though I already know it won't make a difference.
"You shouldn't be here," I add, more sharply this time.
Still nothing.
He stops a few steps in, then looks at me like he's already decided something.
'You're wasting your time,' he says.
I let out a small breath, not quite a laugh.
"Right," I mutter. "Didn't ask."
"There's no one here to see this," he continues, like I didn't speak. "And your timing's off."
My jaw tightens.
"You're compensating," he adds, glancing down at my foot for a second. "It's obvious."
Something in me tightens, sharper this time.
"I said I didn't ask."
The words come out before I can think about them.
I take a step forward.
Bad idea.
The ache comes back, dull but there, spreading just enough to throw me off.
I ignore it anyway.
I'm not about to just stand here and let him talk like that.
He watches me, calm and unbothered.
"I'm not critiquing you,"
"I'm just pointing out what's already happening."
For a second, I don't know what to say.
I hate that.
The silence lingers between us.
Then he turns.
Just like that.
The conversation is over.
He walks toward the door, unhurried, like he was never really here for long.
He reaches the doorway and pauses, glancing back at me.
"If you're going to dance through pain, at least make it look like it's worth the cost,"
There's no edge. No sarcasm.
Which makes it worse.
Then he's gone.
The door shuts behind him.
I stand there, frozen.
My ankle still aches.
My breathing is uneven.
But neither of those things feel like the problem anymore.
It's what he said.
The way he looked at me.
Not impressed.
Not disappointed.
Just sure, and I don't know what to do with that.