Night to Redeem

Reflections in Broken Glass

- Aria -

I've always believed that a dancer should live in the moment, like a flame dancing in the wind, but right now, that flame is more like a flickering candle in a storm. Here I stand, in the spine of the world's loneliest dance studio, dressed in my favorite tutu that has seen better days—let's be honest, it's probably seen more than I have at this point. The barely lit room feels like a time capsule of what was once a dream, echoing the faint sound of music only I can hear, a haunting melody that underlines every fleeting movement, every droplet of sweat cascading down my brow.

I gaze into the wall mirror, half-terrified of what I will see. It offers a distorted reflection of me, the faded image of a ballerina with grand ambitions. My body is draped in fabric that once made me feel like an ethereal being, but tonight, it feels like a punishing cocoon. My legs, oh my dear legs, why do you betray me so? Each attempt to find my center, to balance on my toes, sends jolts of agony up my spine, reminding me of the accident that shattered my dreams more effectively than a hammer breaking glass.

Let's talk about piqué turns, shall we? A beautiful act of shifting weight, rising from one foot to another—like gliding from darkness into the light! Ha! That light seems a million miles away. I grit my teeth, sweat dripping from my brow, clenching my fists tightly as I lift one leg, desperately trying to remember that blend of artistry and physics. The theory sounds easy. "Just engage your core, Aria," I mutter to myself in a mock-serious tone, a futile reminder of what was once my uncanny ability to find grace in chaos. I try, oh how I try! The leg quivers, the body shakes, and with a grunt sounding like a dying animal, gravity wins yet again, delivering me mercilessly back to the floor.

"Fabulous," I spit, glaring at the offending appendages that have caused me endless frustration. If I could, I'd pin a "Kick Me" sign on my feet. I'm not exaggerating when I say I've cursed them so much that I'm surprised they haven't sprouted legs and run off to join a circus. My life used to be one of pirouettes and pliés, and now? Well, now it feels like I'm perpetually stuck in a grotesque limbo.

With a dramatic flourish that would impress even the most seasoned prima donna, I kick off my now-too-tight ballet shoes and launch them towards the mirror. They hit the surface with a satisfying smack, leaving behind a small crack that snakes across my reflection. How fitting—a misshapen mirror for a misshapen life. My heart feels heavy, an anchor that pulls me deeper into undefined waters. I can't help but laugh bitterly; I mean, there's irony in everything, isn't there? My reflection splintered into a mosaic of shards, each piece a reminder of the countless nights rehearsed, the routine that is now a distant memory.

To my right sits my cane, silent and stoic next to my wheelchair, the relentless frame of my new normal. It's been ten long years since the accident, and what a way to celebrate a decade of mediocrity—by staring into this mirror, confronting a past that refuses to let go. It's a hell of a party, let me tell you. On most days, I wear a bright façade, cracking jokes and throwing around smiles like confetti, but inside? Inside, I am a hurricane of tangled emotions, a sea of what-ifs and reverberating regrets. It's exhausting sometimes, pretending that everything is fine when it feels like the world has forgotten the girl who once danced like she was painting colors in the air.

Right when I think it couldn't brew worse, I find myself ruminating on the hard truths that hover around me like a swarm of restless fireflies. I think of the professionals I used to admire from the front row, their graceful arcs illuminating the stage. What good is it to be a dancer if you can't dance? The ache of those words reverberates deep inside me, a cacophony I cannot silence.

Laughter bubbles up, unbidden, as I picture my friends' faces if they could see me now. The fiery, witty Aria, standing alone amid shadows and broken glass, is the punchline to a cosmic joke only I am in on. I close my eyes, and all I see is a stage—vibrant lights, an audience willing to be swept away, and me, the captivating enchantress of movement, soaring without limits. But open them? Only reflections of shattered dreams stare back at me.

"Is this all there is?" I ask the universe, half-expecting an answer. A wise friend once told me that life's answers come wrapped in strange packages, but I've yet to unwrap one that smells even remotely like hope. A pause lingers as if the silence offers me a nod of acknowledgment, and I hate the feeling that washes over me.

I think about my future, or rather the future that feels perpetually out of reach. Will I ever find myself back on stage, or have I unwittingly signed a lifetime contract to the darkened corners of this studio, tethering myself to memories while the world moves on? Some days, it's simpler to believe the latter—a cozy little lie to cradle myself with when the nights turn too long. After all, dreams are meant to be shattered, right?

With a final sigh, I look back into the mirror. The figure that stares back is still Aria, even if she doesn't feel whole. Maybe, just maybe, there's strength in broken reflections. Who knows? Perhaps there's still a chance to dance with my shadows. After all, it's in the cracks that light finds a way to enter. And if broken glass can reflect the beauty of light, then perhaps there's a path for me yet.

I take a deep breath, pressing my palms against the cool surface of the wall mirror. "Alright," I whisper to myself, a small ember of defiance flickering in my chest. "Let's see what we can do with these broken pieces."

As I tightly held my ballet shoes against my chest and stood up, I drew strength from the dancers' railing, shuffling my way back to the wheelchair. With a loud sigh, I sank into its familiar embrace, a sigh that carried the weight of countless rehearsals and dreams slowly waning like the final notes of a symphony.

My eyes drifted back to the dance floor where a single spotlight gleamed, illuminating that sacred space, a stage that only existed in the corners of my mind, whispering bittersweet secrets. I let my last tear slip; it fell like an uninvited guest in this already poignant farewell. "Goodbye, my dear ballet," I murmured, imagining the world we built together as I lifted my gaze one final time.

Shaking off the sorrow like dust from the soles of my shoes, I wheeled myself out of the rehearsal space and headed to the office. I grabbed my bag, each movement echoing my resolve to close this chapter, and without a moment's hesitation, I locked the studio doors behind me.

The drive home was a blur, the streets of Los Angeles rushing past like memories I could no longer grasp. My house, a spacious one-story oasis tailored for my needs yet brimming with remnants of my past, welcomed me like a breath of fresh air. I rolled through the entryway, feeling the familiar coolness of the polished floors under my wheels, a stark contrast to the turmoil whirling inside my mind.

I remembered the day I broke the news to my parents about my decision to leave Chicago. Their faces, pale as ghosts, still haunted me. "How could you, Aria? You don't understand how dangerous it is. What if something happens?" They weren't just shocked; they were terrified. Their overprotectiveness was exhausting, an unwanted armor that suffocated my spirit.

"Do you really think I'm that fragile?" I had snapped, the fire in my chest igniting. "I'm twenty-one! I deserve the chance to find my own path, even if it's paved with uncertainty." But their concerns fell on deaf ears. The only voice that resonated with me was my brother Zayn's.

He stood unwavering, a pillar of support. "You've got this, Aria," he'd said, squeezing my shoulder with reassurance. "I'll help you any way you need." He backed me not just with words but also with the financial support that felt both liberating and heavy on my conscience. Asking our wealthy father for money to pursue my dream felt like trading my independence for a gilded cage. I couldn't allow it. So Zayn's loan it was, and the moment my dance studio opened, every penny felt like a reminder that I was forging my own narrative. Yes, I couldn't dance, but teaching? That was my lifeblood.

Now, years later, I found joy in molding the little dancers who pirouetted around the studio, their eyes filled with dreams that mirrored my own. They reminded me of why I had fought so fiercely against the current—because we all deserve the chance to fly, even if our wings aren't as strong as we'd like them to be.

That evening, after that monumental sigh of finality, I rolled toward my soft couch, sinking into its depths like the scattered remnants of my resolve. Almost as if the universe was conspiring against me—a reminder that life doesn't play by the rules I had drawn in my head—my phone buzzed. The screen lit up, revealing a name I had unconsciously braced myself for: Neurosurgery Clinic, Chicago.

With trembling hands, I answered, my heart racing as uncertainty wrapped around me like a thick fog. "Hello, Ms. Aria Foster? This is Dr. Morse's assistant, Sydney, from the clinic. We have settled the date for your upcoming surgery and are pleased to inform you that it will be performed in Los Angeles."

Frozen, I blinked, the implications of those words pooling in my mind. Surgery? Here? I was struck by the dizzying reality that I would finally confront this battle, one I had faced with stubborn refusal for far too long. Would this change everything?

A surreal calm washed over me, and I found myself hanging onto the conversation for dear life. "When is it?" I managed to ask, voice shaky.

"Next month, September 10th," the assistant continued, her tone professional yet warm. "Our team is looking forward to helping you regain mobility. It's a step toward reclaiming your independence."

Reclaiming my independence. The phrase echoed in my heart, igniting the flickering flame that had dimmed over the years. This could be the spark I needed, the door that could open to an even greater avenue of possibilities. I would be on the other side of that surgery, back to teaching, back to feeling the pulse of the dance community around me. All the students who looked to me were like mirrors—reflections of my past desires fused with their untainted ambitions.

When the call ended, the room felt fuller, more electric, as if each corner vibrated with possibility. I exhaled, my heart fluttering as sparks ignited a long-dormant part of me. I might have closed one door, but it felt like a window had flung wide open.

Sitting there, I knew that my life wasn't just about the dreams I had lost; it was now about the dreams that still waited to be born. The children would still need me, and I would be there—dancing around the struggles with them, guiding them through each plié and each grand jeté. And whether I took those steps myself or simply urged their feet forward, I would remain a part of the dance, a teacher and a dreamer gliding gracefully along an uncertain, yet hopeful path.

That night, as I lay in bed, staring up at the ceiling, I pondered all that had unfolded. Tomorrow wouldn't just be another day; it would be a step toward something new and vibrant, a rehearsal for a future where I could redefine what it meant to be a dancer and a teacher. I could already hear the whispers of future laughter, the sound of swishing tutus and tiny feet landing gracefully on the ground. Those were the symphonies that would guide my heart home again.

"Just wait, Aria," I whispered into the darkness, echoing a vow I had made countless times. "You're not done dancing yet."