Ashes & Roses

Chapter 2

Wynter Rose Monroe

The first thing I noticed when I opened my eyes was the sunlight. It slipped through the thin curtains of our dorm room, casting warm golden lines across the floor and illuminating the boxes and half-unpacked bags scattered around the room. For a few seconds, I stayed completely still beneath my blankets. Then I remembered. My first day of classes. A smile immediately pulled at my lips. I pushed myself out of bed, suddenly wide awake despite my alarm still having another fifteen minutes left. My stomach fluttered with excitement as I looked toward the other side of the room.

Genevieve was still asleep. Of course she was. Yesterday, she'd insisted that we needed to wake up early so we wouldn't be late for our first classes. Apparently, she'd forgotten that conversation sometime between midnight and morning. I quietly grabbed my toiletry bag and headed toward the bathroom. Today was different. I wasn't wandering around campus trying to memorize buildings or wondering where I belonged. I had somewhere to be. The arts center. My first ballet class. I stood in front of the mirror and gathered my curls into my hands. My hair was thick and stubborn, refusing to cooperate as I carefully pulled it back. I smoothed the sides as neatly as I could before twisting everything into a bun and securing it with pins. A few curls escaped almost immediately. I sighed and fixed them again. Ballet had taught me that the smallest details mattered. A loose strand of hair could fall into your face during a turn. A poorly secured bun could come undone in the middle of a combination. There was always something that could be corrected.

I finally stepped back from the mirror. My reflection looked familiar but somehow, today, I looked different. Older.Maybe it was just the knowledge that I was no longer preparing for an audition. I had already made it.

I changed into my ballet attire, pulling on my tights and leotard before slipping into my warm-up clothes. Over the leotard, I tied a soft wrap skirt around my waist, the fabric settling lightly against my hips just enough coverage to make me feel a little more put together before class. My pointe shoes were already packed inside my dance bag, tucked carefully beside my extra ribbons and water bottle. I checked the bag anyway. Once. Then again. Everything was there. I smiled to myself. This was what I'd been waiting for. Years of early mornings. Blisters. Sore muscles. Corrections.

Rehearsals that lasted until my legs barely felt like they belonged to me. There had been countless moments when I'd wondered whether all of it would eventually be worth something. Now I was here. A full scholarship. A university arts program. A real chance to become the dancer I'd always dreamed of becoming. I walked back into the bedroom just as Genevieve finally began stirring. She groaned beneath the blankets and pulled the pillow over her head. I tried not to laugh.

"You're awake?" I asked softly. The pillow moved just enough for one eye to appear.

"Unfortunately." She sighed softly

"You're the one who said we needed to wake up early." I smiled as I walked over to my desk, packing my notebooks into my dance bag along with a few pencils.

"I was optimistic yesterday." She slowly sat up, her hair completely disheveled and her expression offended by the existence of morning.

"You're already ready?" She noticed what I was wearing. Her eyes traveled over my leotard, tights, wrap skirt, and warm-up clothes before settling on my dance bag.

"I have Ballet Technique first." I stated excitedly as I slipped my pink duffle bag over my shoulder.

Genevieve stared at me for a moment.

"You look excited, you're going to be amazing" She smiled sleepily. There was something warm about the way she said it. She climbed out of bed and stretched, still looking half asleep. She said it so easily that I almost believed her without questioning it. I gripped onto my bag to ease the bit of nerves I have and checked the time. We still had enough time. Barely. Genevieve noticed the clock and immediately started moving faster.

"Okay. I take back everything I said about waking up early. We absolutely should have gotten up earlier." I laughed as she hurried toward the bathroom.

For the first time since arriving on campus, my nerves settled into something that felt almost like excitement. Today wasn't about wondering whether I belonged. I was finally going to find out. I stepped into the hallway with my dance bag over my shoulder, I couldn't stop myself from smiling. My first day had finally begun.

┈┈・୨ ✦ ୧・┈┈

The morning air was cooler than it had been yesterday, carrying the faintest hint of autumn even though summer still lingered. The campus looked completely different this morning. Yesterday, everyone had been moving slowly, carrying boxes and saying goodbye to their parents. Today, there was purpose in every direction. Everyone had somewhere to be. So did I. I adjusted the strap of my duffle and followed the brick pathway toward the Performing Arts Center. The building came into view several minutes later, its tall glass windows reflecting the morning sunlight. Yesterday, I'd only admired it from the outside. Today, I was walking through its doors as a student. My nerves returned almost immediately. I tightened my grip around the strap of my bag and took a slow breath before stepping inside. The lobby was already filled with dancers. Some were stretching against the walls, others were carrying dance bags or talking quietly with friends. A few students walked barefoot across the polished floor, pointe shoes hanging from their hands. I slowed without meaning to. This was different from every studio I'd ever trained in. These dancers were going to be my classmates. My competition. Maybe even my friends. I took another breath and looked toward the hallway where the dance studios were located. Then I smiled. I had spent years dreaming about this. There was no reason to be afraid of finally getting what I wanted. I followed the signs toward the dance studios, the sound of music growing louder with every step.

It started as something distant..faint piano notes threading through the hallway like a memory.. then slowly sharpened into rhythm. With each turn, the air changed too. Warmer. Lived-in. It carried the faint scent of rosin dust, clean wood, and the sharp, familiar tang of sweat that never quite left a studio like this. My footsteps softened as I approached the door. When I reached the studio, I hesitated outside. The music was clearer now. A piano, steady and deliberate, spilling through the crack beneath the door. Inside, I could hear the subtle cadence of movement feet brushing the floor, the controlled rise and fall of breath, the occasional squeak of ballet shoes gripping marley. Light bled through the small window beside the door, pale and golden, flickering slightly as dancers moved past it inside. Shadows shifted across the floor like something alive. The studio opened up in front of me like another world. Mirrors stretched across the entire left wall, catching everything at once the barres lined in perfect order, the dancers scattered through the space, the soft chaos of warm-ups already in motion. Sunlight poured through the tall windows on the opposite side, spilling across the marley floor in long, glowing rectangles that shifted whenever someone passed through them. The air inside was different. Thinner somehow. Charged. Like it belonged to movement. It was bigger than any studio I'd ever trained in before. For a moment, I just stood there. A few dancers were already warming up. Some stretched quietly at the barre, bodies folding into familiar shapes with effortless control. Others moved through center combinations, their lines sharp and intentional, like they already knew exactly how they belonged in this space. I felt it immediately. That instinct. The comparison.

She was more flexible.

Her turnout was cleaner.

His jumps were higher.

Her port de bras was softer.

I swallowed it down before it could take root. I set my bag down near the wall and lowered myself carefully to the floor, pulling it into my lap as I began to unpack. Slowly, the room continued filling. I could feel it subtle shifts in attention, quick glances that flicked toward me and away again. Not unkind. Just curious. Measuring. The kind of attention that came with being new in a place where everyone already knew the rhythm. I kept my eyes down. Unzipped my duffle.Warm-ups first. Water bottle. Hair ties. Pins. Then I pulled out the one thing that mattered most.

My pointe shoes.

I paused before setting them in front of me. For a second, I just looked at them. Still, I checked them. They weren't new. They weren't perfect. But they were mine. My fingers brushed over the worn satin, and that's when I saw it.

My initials. W.R.M.

Stitched carefully into the side of each shoe in small, delicate thread. My chest tightened slightly. My mom had done that.

I could still picture her at the kitchen table, late at night, glasses slipping down her nose, needle moving carefully through satin while she insisted it would make them "feel like mine." Like that mattered. Like it was something worth staying up for.

I swallowed and traced the letters again. It grounded me. Like no matter how big this room was, or how many dancers surrounded me, I wasn't completely untethered. I pulled out my ballet slippers, slipping them onto my feet. I began to stretch loosening up my tense muscles. My pointe shoes stayed tucked safely inside my bag. I knew better than to put them on before I was properly warmed up but I just couldn't help but admire them. When I finally looked up again. I felt it. Eyes. Not staring. Not openly.

Just...there.

Flickers of attention that came and went too quickly to call out, but lingered long enough to make my shoulders tighten anyway. My stomach pulled slightly. I wasn't used to being the new one in a room like this. I looked away and focused on my breathing instead.

In.

Out.

Then the door opened. A woman walked inside carrying a folder and a small cup of coffee. She looked to be in her forties, with dark hair pulled neatly away from her face and an expression that made the entire room shift into silence without a word being spoken. She set her coffee on the piano. Then looked up.

"Good morning." The lady said.

The dancers responded almost in unison.

"Good morning."

A faint smile touched her face.

"I'm Professor Bennett. For those of you I haven't met yet, welcome to Ballet Technique."

My stomach fluttered. This was really happening. Professor Bennett stepped further into the room, her gaze sweeping over all of us like she was already reading more than just names and faces.

"I don't care what school you came from, how many competitions you've won, or how many years you've been dancing. Once you walk through these doors, you're here because you have something to learn." Silence settled deeper. Even the air felt still.

"Some of you will find this class easy. Some of you will struggle. Most of you will do both at different times."

A few dancers shifted, small smiles appearing and disappearing just as quickly.

"Don't waste your time worrying about who's standing beside you," she continued. "Worry about your own work."

Something in my chest loosened at that. Just slightly. I moved toward the barre with everyone else.

My hands settled against the wood. My grasp tightened around it, as if I was absorbing the feel of the smooth surface before I finally relaxed. My shoulders dropped. The piano began again. And just like that, everything else disappeared. There was only the music, the movement, and the familiar language my body had known long before I ever stepped into this building. For the first time that morning, I didn't feel like a freshman.

I felt like a dancer.