Episode 3 : "A World where we find Peace"
828 Words
(Neha’s POV)
Back in the Hall of Survival
I walked out of Mrs. Bansal’s office with my heart still thudding so violently, it felt like it wanted to break free from my ribcage. The door clicked shut behind me, but her voice — her stiff tone and those disapproving eyes — still echoed in my ears like a warning I couldn’t unhear. My palms were cold. My breath uneven. But I made it.
I had survived.
For today.
The hallway outside was bathed in a pale shaft of afternoon light, spilling in through tall windows lined with half-open blinds. Dust motes floated lazily in the sunlight, glowing like little flecks of stubborn hope refusing to settle. I paused by the window for a second, trying to will my pulse to slow down, my shoulders to relax.
Behind me, her judgment lingered.
In front of me… was the one place where I could forget it all.
And then I heard it — music. Distant, muffled through the walls, but so familiar it made my eyes sting. A slow, rising beat. The kind that crawled into your spine and made your soul stretch with it.
I followed it.
The closer I got to the practice hall, the louder it became. Not just the music — the energy. Laughter. The slap of feet on wooden floors. The occasional sharp clap. That invisible electricity in the air that only dance studios had — a mix of sweat, adrenaline, dreams, and raw chaos.
I pushed the door open.
And stepped into home.
---
The mirrored studio was alive. Sunlight flooded the room, bouncing off the wide glass panels that lined the walls, multiplying every movement a hundredfold. Bodies moved in rhythm, sharp and fluid — students pushing through warm-ups with muscle memory and pure instinct.
And right in the middle, like a perfectly annoying peacock, stood Vishal.
His arms moved with elegance. Confidence. Show-off energy.
The moment he spotted me, his jaw dropped dramatically, and he placed a hand over his chest.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please welcome our beloved drama queen — returned from the battlefield unharmed!” he announced like a theatre actor in full form.
Laughter rippled through the room. I shot him a pointed look.
“Careful, Vishal. Keep talking and you’ll be the one doing twenty pirouettes alone tomorrow.”
He grinned, not the least bit threatened. “If that means you’re late again, I might just take that risk.”
I rolled my eyes — but the smile broke through anyway.
This. This banter. This rhythm. These people.
They were my rescue team, even if they didn’t know it.
I clapped my hands sharply, commanding attention.
“Alright, everyone!” I called out, stepping into the center of the room where my voice carried best. “Five-minute break. Hydrate, breathe, stretch — then we’re doing a full run-through of the routine. No excuses today. We’ve got one shot to make this choreography perfect before tomorrow. Let’s kill it!”
They scattered like bees — collapsing on the floor, reaching for their bottles, cracking jokes. Some massaged aching calves, others practiced spins half-heartedly while chatting. I walked toward the stereo in the corner, my fingers brushing against the playlist I had crafted like a potion — one that could lift a hundred hearts and break them at the same time.
Contemporary fusion.
Fierce yet emotional. Fluid yet stormy.
A dance style that felt like breathing and bleeding at once.
Just like me.
I clicked play.
And as the opening notes filled the space, my body moved instinctively — like water filling a glass. Each beat pulled me deeper. Arms slicing through the air. Toes pointed with purpose. Chest open. Eyes closed.
The music wasn’t just a backdrop — it was freedom.
Every step, every spin, was a word in a language only I understood. With each movement, I pulled out the ache I didn’t dare speak aloud. The sleepless nights. The secrets. The smile I had to wear for Disha’s sake. The fear that tomorrow might pull the rug out again.
And yet, I danced. Not because I wanted to forget. But because dance reminded me that I was still here.
Every beat on the floor was my heart pounding. Every leap — a rebellion against the gravity of my past. Every pirouette — a silent scream into the universe.
This was survival.
I caught my reflection in the mirror mid-turn. Hair loose. Face flushed. Eyes sharp.
This was the girl Disha believed in.
This was the dream we scribbled on sticky notes late at night in that suffocating little apartment.
The dream that smelled like cheap chai and windowless hope.
The dream we whispered into cracked ceilings and laughed about under broken fans.
Dancing wasn’t just my profession. It was my protection. My defiance. My sanctuary.
And in that moment, surrounded by mirrors and music, something inside me whispered—
Keep going, Neha. You’re not done yet.
- Writer
