Grace always knew that she was born to perform. To be put on display. To be admired. She fell in love with ballet during her very first class at five years old. She was entranced by the delicate piano, the glowing lights, and the feeling that filled her when she would take her bow and the crowd would roar with applause. After each class, when her mother would pick her up, Grace would plead to stay just a few more minutes. She would position herself in front of the window at studio 3 and watch as the older girls waltzed with elegance and poise in their beautiful pointe shoes, dreaming of the day she would receive her own pair. Ten years later, as she stood at the door of studio 3, she felt anything but elegant and poised. In a flash, she found herself clutching the door frame as her vision went grey and blurry. She couldn't remember the last time she had anything to eat. The only thing she could remember was what her ballet teacher had said to her about a month ago.

“Suck in your stomach, Grace!” Miss Odette shouted as they did the adagio in center. This was the tenth correction she had gotten today, which she remarked as her new record. Each critique chipped at her confidence like a hammer to her delicate self-esteem. Catching a glimpse of herself in the mirror, all she could see were her flaws, magnified by the harsh words that echoed through her mind. She saw herself as a collection of parts that needed fixing, always being commended on her ability to take corrective action. She turned out her feet when they were underturned, straightened her arms when they were bent, yet she didnt know how to fix her newfound problem of her body. The second she saw her mind drifting, she returned to the present, positioning herself in the front and center of the class. That was the place where she always felt the most comfortable. Every eye that she could draw, every ounce of attention on herself, was a reminder of what she was: a performer.

As Grace walked the dark, streetlit way home, the only thing she could see was her reflection. Every glass window, every mirror reflected back a distorted image. Even her shadows seemed to dance alongside her, seemingly disobeying her movements. Returning home, the beautiful feast on her dining table was daunting, almost laughing at her. Her place setting sat lonely that night as she lay in her room, drowning herself in homework. Again, she looked at herself in the mirror. Maybe Miss Odette was right; there was no harm in skipping a few meals just to look better. After all, she was a ballerina; looking perfect was her job. This habit of skipping meals became a routine as she continually convinced herself she “wasn't hungry” or was simply “too busy.” She never meant for this to become a problem, yet every time she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, she was disappointed. She could always be thinner.

A few days later, Grace returned to her ballet class. The class began, and she moved through the routine with mechanical precision. She counted in her mind, “1-2-3-pliét-5-6-7-jeté-1-2-3-tondu-5-6-7-dégagé.” Her body, lighter and weaker, responded to the music, but the fluidity and passion that once defined her dancing seemed to have faded. The world around her, once a kaleidoscope of vivid hues and textures, had transformed into a monochrome mosaic of digits and sums. Each note of the music became a tick of the clock, each step a variable in a complex equation that she tirelessly solved. But beyond the rhythm and routine, another set of numbers haunted her - the relentless calculation of her diet. These figures were more than just quantities; they had become the markers of her identity, dictating her world and dominating her thoughts. In her thoughts of numbers, the artistry of ballet was reduced to a mechanical exercise, a series of movements to be executed, not felt. The joy of dance, once natural to her, now seemed like a distant echo, lost in the shadow of her mind.

Now, as she clutched the door to studio 3, Grace no longer had the energy to dance. She instead sat herself in front of the window, watching her classmates from the same spot where, years ago, she had first fallen in love with ballet. From her quiet corner, Grace again admired the fluid movements of the dancers, their bodies a stark contrast to her own frail form. The beauty and grace that once inspired her now served as a painful reminder of what her obsession had cost her. The relentless pursuit of perfection, the constant scrutiny of her body, the never-ending pressure to be thinner, stronger, better - it has all started from a love for ballet, a love that had twisted into something unrecognizable.