The first light of dawn, a pale, watery grey, crept through the gaps in Summer's curtains, chasing away the dancing shadows cast by the fairy lights. She hadn't moved all night. Her limbs felt stiff, her eyes swollen and gritty, but the question that had haunted her before sleep still clung to her like a second skin: Did Layla ever feel lonely?
The silence of her room, once a safe haven, now felt heavy, echoing the oppressive quiet of the dinner table the night before. It was a different kind of quiet though, a silent accusation. In the quiet of her room, she had a choice, she could leave and break it or stay within it's walls. Downstairs, the quiet was something forced, something she couldn't break.
She pushed herself up, the cotton sheets clinging to her skin as if reluctant to release her. The room was small, barely enough space for the single bed, a narrow desk littered with half-finished art projects, and a overflowing bookcase. It was a microcosm of her life; bright, colourful, and a little chaotic. It was a world made safe with the soft light of string lights and a locked door.
Summer glanced at the small, framed photo on her desk. It was an old picture of her and Layla, taken when Summer was probably no older than seven. Layla, no more than ten, stood tall, even then, her arm wrapped protectively around Summer's shoulders. Summer was grinning, missing a front tooth, her pigtails askew. Layla's smile was softer, a gentle curve that didn't quite reach her eyes. Even in that old picture, the weight of responsibility was visible, etched subtly around her sister's mouth.
She finally stood, her bare feet touching the cool wooden floor. She pulled on a worn t-shirt and a pair of track pants, her movements sluggish, like she was wading through mud. A glance at the clock told her it was almost seven. She knew that Layla would already be awake, probably making breakfast, preparing for the day as if there was nothing more regular.
The thought brought a wave of fresh guilt. What was she doing? Lying in her bed, wallowing in her self-pity, while Layla shouldered the weight of their lives? Why was she not trying harder? The answer, she knew, lay in the fear that had consumed her growing heart. She was petrified of letting her sister down.
She opened her door, the hinges groaning in protest. The hallway was dark, the only light coming from the kitchen downstairs. She could hear the clatter of pans, the rhythmic chopping of vegetables, the familiar sounds of Layla's morning routine. She made her way down the stairs, each creak of the old wood a loud announcement of her presence.
As she entered the kitchen, Layla didn't look up, their mother was nowhere to be seen. Her dark hair was pulled back in a messy bun, a few strands escaping to frame her face. She wore her usual oversized flannnel shirt and faded jeans, an outfit that had become almost iconic to Layla. Her movements were precise and efficient, honed by years of practice. There was a small mountain of cut up vegtables on one end of the counter, next to a large bowl of oats. The smell of spices filled the air, masking the faint scent of antiseptic that had always clung to this house.
"Morning," Summer said softly, her voice hoarse from lack of use.
Layla turned, her eyes, the same bright hazel as Summer's, searched her face for a moment, then softened. "Morning, sleepyhead." she said, her voice as light as ever. Layla wasn't one for long drawn out confrontations. Summer knew that the silence from the night before was not forgotten, it was just pushed down and neatly tucked away. Layla would never bring it up, and Summer hoped that one day, she wouldn't have too.
She motioned towards the table, where two steaming mugs of tea were waiting. "I made your usual, extra milk."
Summer sat down, the warm ceramic of the mug felt good in her hands. She took a sip, the familiar taste comforting, but even the tea couldn't chase away the knot in her stomach.
"Is Mom still asleep?" Summer asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
Layla shrugged, turning back to the stove. "She was when I got up. I think she's having one of her days."
Summer knew what that meant. A "shadowy figure" indeed. It meant another day of tiptoeing around a mother adrift in a world only she could see. Another day where Layla would shoulder the responsibility of both of their care.
Summer watched her sister, noticing the faint lines around her eyes, the subtle tremor in her hands as she stirred the pot on the stove, and it was as if a dam broke. She couldn't keep ignoring the truth, she couldn't keep coasting along. Something had to change.
"Layla," Summer started, her voice slightly stronger than before. "Last night..." She hesitated, unsure of how to voice the questions that had been swirling within her all night.
Layla turned back, her expression carefully neutral. "Yeah?" she prompted.
Summer took a deep breath, the warm tea doing little to soothe her nerves. It was time, she thought, to start peeling back the layers. It was time, to start trying to understand the invisible burden that Layla had for so long. "Last night, what you said... 'I'll take care of you, like always' it made me think..." She paused again, searching for the right words. "Did you... did you ever feel like you had to take care of more than just me?"
The question hung in the air, heavy and fraught with unspoken truths. Layla's gaze faltered, a flicker of something – was it pain? – crossing her face. For the first time, Summer wasn't met with the usual calm reassurance. Layla opened her mouth, then closed it again, the clatter of the pot against the stove was the only sound filling the silence.
Layla paused, her hand hovering over the simmering pot. The spices, once a comforting aroma, seemed to thicken the air, suffocating the small kitchen. She didn't turn to face Summer, her back remaining rigid as she stirred the oats with an almost frantic energy. "What do you mean?" she asked, her voice tight, a subtle shift from the easy, light tone she had adopted just moments before. "I've always taken care of you, Summer. That's what big sisters do."
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She finally turned, the spoon clattering against the side of the pot as she set it down. Her eyes, normally bright and clear, now seemed shadowed by a flicker of something Summer couldn't quite name. It wasn't anger, not exactly. More like a tightly wound coil, ready to snap. "You're not implying," Layla started again, her voice laced with a warning, "that I haven't been enough, are you?"
Summer flinched slightly at the edge in Layla's voice, immediately regretting her question. "No, of course not! That's the last thing I would ever think! It's just... it feels, sometimes, like you've been responsible for so much. Not just me."
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Layla's gaze dropped, her focus now fixed on the chipped counter. "You read too many books," she mumbled, her voice barely audible. "You see things that aren't there." She picked up her tea and took a long, shaky sip. "It's just how it is. I had to grow up fast. That was all."
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And then she looked up, her eyes locking onto Summer's. For the first time since she could remember, there was no pretense, no subtle dismissal—just raw, unfiltered pain. "But enough about that," Layla said quickly, forcing a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes. "We've got a busy day ahead of us. Are you going into the studio today?"
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The studio—she hadn't been there in a while, too busy with her art projects. The first notes of Tchaikovsky's score had rippled through the hushed auditorium, and then... there she was. Layla. Her sister, transformed.
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That night, Summer hadn't just watched a performance; she had witnessed a revelation. Layla, usually a whirlwind of laughter and mischievous grins, was ethereal. She floated across the stage as the Sugar Plum Fairy, her movements as delicate as snowflakes and as powerful as a blossoming flower. Her tutu, a cloud of shimmering white, seemed to catch the light, making her glow like a star against the dark backdrop. It was as if the world had been drained of color, and then, in that moment, with Layla's every leap and pirouette, it was suddenly vibrant again. The music, which had been background noise before, now pulsed with a life of its own, carrying Summer away on a wave of pure emotion.
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Summer had been young, maybe six or seven, but that night was etched in her mind with startling clarity. She remembered the wide-eyed awe, the breathless wonder, and the unshakeable feeling that she, too, needed to be a part of that world. After the final bow and the thunderous applause, Summer had raced backstage, her tiny legs pumping like pistons. She grabbed Layla around the knees, burying her face in the soft fabric of her costume. "I want to do that too!" she'd squealed, her voice thick with excitement.
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From that moment on, she'd become her mother's miniature shadow, begging and pleading to be enrolled in ballet classes. "Please, Mama! I want to dance like Layla! I want to be a princess too!" Her mother, once a woman with a warm smile and an even warmer heart, had initially found her outburst amusing, chuckling at the passionate fervor in her daughter's eyes. "Oh, Summer," she'd said, ruffling her hair, "such determination! Well, we'll see."
A sharp, insistent voice pulled Summer back to the present. "Oi? Did you just zone out? Get dressed, we leave in 15 minutes!" Layla's face, brow furrowed with what Summer recognised as her typical impatience, was hovering inches from her own.
Summer blinked, the memory of the ethereal Sugar Plum Fairy dissolving into the stark reality of the cluttered kitchen. A half-finished coffee on the counter, charcoal dust smeared across her fingers. "Sorry," she mumbled, shaking her head and trying to clear the cobwebs from her mind. "Just...thinking."
Layla rolled her eyes, but a hint of concern flickered across her expression. "Thinking about what? Certainly not about getting ready, apparently." She gestured towards the pile of crumpled clothes on the washing machine. "Come on, move it. Mrs. Petrov won't hold the class for us, and I'm not dealing with her wrath today."
Summer sighed, turning to take the clean change of clothes. The rush of the past was fading, replaced by a nervous flutter. The ballet studio. It had been weeks, maybe months since she had last stepped inside. A part of her yearned for it. Another part, the one tethered to her art, was apprehensive. She grabbed her leotard and tights, the familiar fabric a strange comfort against her skin.
The bus ride was an uneasy mix of silence and forced conversation. Layla, ever the perfectionist, ran through the combinations in her head, muttering under her breath. Summer was lost in thought, the window reflecting her own restless face back at her. The city blurred past in a chaotic stream of greys and browns, a stark contrast to the shimmering world of the theatre she had been reliving just moments ago.
The bus rattled to a halt, the doors hissing open with a sigh. Summer and Layla stepped out onto the familiar pavement, the imposing brick façade of the ballet studio looming before them. It was an old building, etched with stories, its windows like eyes staring out on the busy street.
AT THE STUDIO.
Summer paused, closed her eyes, and took a deep breath. The air, thick with the comforting scent of rosin and the faintest lingering sweat, filled her lungs. It was the scent of dedication, of hard work, of a shared passion that she'd almost forgotten she possessed. With a small, nervous smile, she pushed open the door.
The familiar studio, with its scarred wooden floor and walls lined with mirrors reflecting a kaleidoscope of warm-up leotards and focused expressions, opened up before them. And then, Mrs. Petrov's voice, sharp as a newly-sharpened pointe shoe, sliced through the air.
"Ah, finally, the Danvers sisters have decided to grace us with their presence!" Her voice, though stern, held a hint of the affection she rarely showed. "Ladies, you are late. Do not let this happen again." Her icy blue eyes, magnified by her thick spectacles, locked onto Summer and Autumn, making them feel like errant school children.
Layla, ever the more composed of the two, gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod. Her voice, though soft, held a steady sincerity. "We apologize, Mrs. Petrov." She even managed a small, almost apologetic smile, a skill honed over years of navigating their demanding teacher's often unpredictable moods.
Summer, however, felt a flush creep up her neck. Her apology felt inadequate, a hollow echo of Layla's genuine remorse. She wanted to explain, to say that it wasn't that she hadn't wanted to be here, but that the weight of the studio, the weight of expectation, had felt almost unbearable lately. But the words caught in her throat, lost amongst the nervous flutter in her chest.
Instead, she just lowered her gaze and echoed her sister's words, "Yes, we're very sorry, Mrs. Petrov." It sounded thin, strained even to her own ears. She felt Mrs. Petrov's gaze linger on her for a moment longer than Layla before the woman finally turned away, back towards the other dancers, her voice now a little softer as she continued the warm-up.
Summer let out a breath she didn't realize she'd been holding. The piano music continued, a flowing undercurrent to the studio's bustle, and she felt a strange mix of relief and unease settle in her stomach. She was here, back in the studio, but it felt like more than just stepping back into a familiar space. It felt like stepping back into an old life she wasn't sure she was ready to fully embrace again. And she wondered if, somehow, Mrs. Petrov had seen that unease flickering in her eyes.
As Layla adjusted her foot, pressing deeper into the stretch. The familiar ache was a welcome companion, a reminder of the dedication she poured into dance. She glanced at the digital clock on the wall: 5:03. Five minutes left of warm-up. Today was choreography day for their new piece, and the anticipation buzzed beneath her skin like static, a nervous energy she knew well. They had been working on a new piece all month- except for summer who rarely joined, inspired by the Japanese concept of "komorebi" – the interplay of sunlight and leaves. Their instructor, Mrs. Petrov as she was known outside the studio, had described it as "dance made of light, shadows and whispers." It was a concept that intrigued and intimidated her in equal measure.
"Almost there, Summer," Layla called out, balancing precariously on one leg across the room, her arms extended like the branches of a tree, her body a study in controlled fluidity. Even in a warm-up, Layla moved with an innate grace that seemed effortless.
Summer smiled. "Just trying not to become one with the floor."
Mrs. Petrov stood at the front of the studio, a haven of mirrors and polished wood, her long, elegant form gliding with a dancer's grace that belied her years. Her kind eyes, the colour of vast oceans, swept over the two girls waiting, a slight smile playing on her lips. Summer, with her hair the colour of wheat and eyes reflecting the sky, sat poised, her hands resting lightly on her lap. Layla, her dark braid a stark contrast against her fair skin, was a bundle of coiled energy, her foot tapping impatiently against the floor.
"Alright, i want the Danver sisters at the front." Mrs. Petrov announced, her voice calm yet firm, a melodic Russian accent still clinging to her words after decades in London. "Today, we piece together your 'komorebi' dance. I will guide you, but remember, it's your interpretation. It's your light and shadows."
A collective breath hung in the air. Komorebi. The word itself, Japanese for the sunlight filtering through trees, was a whisper of beauty. It was a dance they should had been preparing for, a piece Mrs. Petrov had specifically designed for them, knowing their different strengths, their different ways of expressing themselves. Layla was all fire, a force of nature, her movements sharp and powerful. Summer was like water, flowing and graceful, her expression often serene. They were sisters, bound by love and a shared passion for dance, yet as different as the sun and the moon.
The girls moved into the center, a ripple of white leotards and pink tights. They began with slow, controlled movements, extending an arm into a graceful port de bras, the body following as the other arm extended out to second position. Mrs. Petrov observed, her gaze sharp, catching every wobble, every misalignment. The music began, a gentle melody played on a piano, Mrs. Petrov's fingers dancing over the keys. It was filled with soft chords and ethereal notes, the kind that seemed to mimic the gentle rustling of leaves in a breeze, the way sunlight filtered through the trees in the woods near their childhood home.
It was a slow, deliberate sequence, mimicking the gentle sway of leaves dancing in a breeze. Arms reached upward, fingers like slender branches reaching for the sky, then curved downward, creating the illusion of shadows falling across the ground. Summer felt the music seep into her soul, guiding her limbs with its gentle flow. She closed her eyes for a moment, allowing herself to be lost in the delicate melody. She could almost feel the dappled sunlight on her skin, the warmth on her face.
They rehearsed the sequence in unison, their movements mirroring each other, two branches reaching for the same sky. Each repetition revealed new nuances, new ways to express the delicate nature of the dance. Summer focused on the precise angles of her body, on the way her muscles coiled and released, trying to imbue her steps with the lightness and beauty of the sunlight she was trying to portray. It was a controlled power, a deliberate grace.
"The light, Summer, feel the light," Mrs. Petrov prompted gently. Summer nodded, her brow furrowed in concentration.
The next sequence was more complex, requiring them to weave in and out of each other, like sunlight finding its way through the branches of a forest. Summer was smooth and flowing, each step like liquid silver; Layla focused on fluidity, on portraying the gentle dance and changing patterns of light and shadow. Summer was channeling the force of the sun, her movements sharp and dramatic, the way a sunbeam could suddenly pierce through the thickest foliage.
It wasn't easy. There were moments of frustration, when steps felt clumsy, when they got tangled up in each other. Once, Layla's foot caught on Summer's, sending them both stumbling, and they ended up collapsing into a fit of giggles. But then, with a shared glance and a shake of their heads, they resumed, their focus renewed.
"Summer, your extensions are lacking lift. Think of a swan taking flight, the effortless rise from the water. And Layla, your épaulement is flat. Feel the twist in your torso, the subtle shift of your shoulders. It is a conversation, a dialogue between your body and the movement." Mrs. Petrov was patient, guiding them with gentle corrections and words of encouragement.
Then she stopped, her gaze sweeping over all of them. A quiet settled in the room. It was a moment in her teaching where something else took over. Something deeper. "Remember, the beauty is not in the perfect execution alone, but in the intention behind it. It is the 'why' of each step that breathes life into the dance." She walked slowly through the studio, her touch, when it came, was both firm and gentle as she adjusted a shoulder, realigned a back, or guided a foot to the correct extension.
"Think of the light," she would say, her voice softening, "the way it dances, the way it changes, and let it guide your movements. It is not merely an illumination, but an energy, a force that exists throughout everything and that we feel in each of our movements." Her dark eyes, filled with a quiet pride, locked onto each of theirs. "The light allows the shadows to cast, the same way a perfect pose allows other poses to live alongside it. You must allow yourself to exist within this dance, and know that the dance exists within you."
She paused, the words hanging in the air like the faint scent of rosin. "This dance, my dears, is more than just steps and sequences. It is the language of the soul, a conversation with the world, and more than anything, a conversation with yourself. When you feel the music, you must let the light into your body, and allow it to guide you."
Layla POV:
The mirrored wall of Studio B reflected not just the dancers, but the anxieties that clung to them like stubborn shadows. Layla, moved through the port de bras with the practiced grace of someone who'd been doing it for a lifetime. And in a way, she had. From the age of seven, performing the Sugar Plum Fairy pirouette across the stage, her tiny heart swelling with a fierce, almost desperate longing, she'd lived and breathed ballet. She remembered the thrill of the music, the sparkle of the tutu, but most vividly, she remembered the awe on Summer's face. Her little sister, all big eyes and a gap-toothed grin, had clapped so hard her hands were probably stinging. That memory, that image of Summer's wide-eyed wonder, was a constant pull, a silent promise Layla had made to herself: that this beautiful, ethereal world of ballet, would be something they shared.
But now, as she transitioned into the fouetté turns, doubt, a familiar demon, clawed at her focus. Am I good enough? the question echoed in her mind, each rotation of her leg a painful reminder of her perceived shortcomings. Mrs. Petrov, in her usual crisp tone, had praised her technique, the words as cold and precise as her perfectly sculpted chignon. But Layla couldn't shake the feeling she was just going through the motions, a marionette on strings she didn't even control.
She glanced over to where Summer sat on a low bench, seemingly engrossed in sketching in a battered notebook. Summer had finally started attending Mrs. Petrov's classes after not attending for awhile. A choice Layla had secretly celebrated, though she tried not to show it. Summer's face, usually lit with mischievousness, was furrowed in concentration. Layla knew that beneath that focused exterior was a storm of emotions. Summer's struggles weren't as visible as Layla's, but they were just as real.
The 'light', the effortless beauty Mrs. Petrov talked about, the ethereal grace that seemed to radiate from some of the other girls, felt miles away. Mrs. Petrov's words from earlier that day echoed in her mind: "Control from the core, Layla. Not a forced rigidity, but a flowing strength, like the sapling that bends but doesn't break." But the phrase only echoed the quiet darkness Layla felt gathering inside her. She caught her reflection in the mirror again – the strain around her eyes, the slight hunch in her shoulders. It wasn't the image of a blooming ballerina, but one of a young woman carrying the weight of the world, or at least her small corner of it, on her slight frame.
"Again, Layla," Mrs. Petrov's voice cut through the silence.
Layla took a deep breath, her muscles aching. She pushed through the self-doubt that gnawed at her. "Core," she reminded herself. "Flow, not force." She executed a series of pirouettes, each turn a battle against the fear of not being good enough. She envied the other girls in the studio who seemed to glide effortlessly across the floor, their faces serene, their bodies confident. Where did they find that confidence? Was it something she would never possess?
Then Summer looked up from her sketchbook, her gaze meeting Layla's across the room. Layla gave her a small, tired smile, understanding the struggle even without words. Summer was her anchor, the only constant in her life.
Layla been both mother and sister to Summer since they were little. Their parents were like ghosts, flitting in and out of their lives, leaving chaos and emptiness in their wake. Every extra shift at the diner, her hands smelling of stale grease instead of lavender, every missed school dance, the music of her peers fading into a distant echo, every sacrifice, had been a small step away from her own dreams. Ballet was meant to be her refuge, a place where she could chase beauty and forget the relentless reality of her life. But lately, it felt like another burden, another demand, another way to fail if she wasn't perfect.
She glanced at the wall where their dance school had a large inspirational posters. One particular quote stood out to her now. " The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. ". Mrs. Petrov often emphasized the concept of "light" in her teachings. Not just as physical light, but as something that represented inner strength, hope, and acceptance. She called it "finding your inner light".
Layla closed her eyes for a second, imagining that light, that strength, flowing through her. A tiny spark flickered, a faint warmth that started in her chest and extended outwards. She understood the challenge, what Mrs. Petrov meant. It wasn't about being perfect, but about finding that inner strength even in the face of doubt. She had to find that light, first within herself and then, hopefully, show it to Summer too. It felt that she was failing her.
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