I stay there slumped on the stage with a mask on my tutu and my hand in my fallen out bun. I refuse to look across the crowd but I still hear their murmurings, wondering what went wrong. What happened for the perfect little ballerina to fall flat on her butt in front of them and to not get straight back up again. To not act like the professional that I’m supposed to be. The spotlight hits my eyes but moves across as if the operator is trying to decide where he should point it. I squint a little and think it through. Why haven’t the curtains closed? What are they waiting for? Are they enjoying my suffering? You may have heard before that ballerinas have complete control of their body, they know what’s going in and out and they know how to work it to its limit and beyond. I know all that as a dancer myself, but what I’ve come to realise is even the most disciplined dancer in the world, can’t control what happens to their heart.