"Un, deux, trois, quatre. Un, deux, trois, quatre. Mind your feet, girls!"

The familiar sound of ballet class rings through Wonshik's ears—he peers into the studio classroom from the window that parents cluster around to watch their children and teens run through choreography and barre exercises. Today, the teacher is putting her intermediate-advanced students through a routine for an upcoming recital. Wonshik can't remember the name of the ballet the company is putting on, but he's sure it's either something French, or something Russian.

"Now, bourrée. Quicker, quicker!"

Wonshik likes to watch the dance classes at Donne de Grands Airs. He can't quite put a finger on why. He's been dancing at Donne de Grands Airs for only a few years at this point, but he's never danced in a class, and he's always refused any offers to teach a class or two. The thought of—a girl in the class flicks her eyes to the window, and Wonshik ducks back behind the wall where she can't see him. Feeling his heart beat like a drum in his chest, he decides to be done watching. Black dance slippers clutched in one hand and a crinkled water bottle in the other, Wonshik slips away from the window in the hallway, making his way to the front of the company's building to say good bye to the receptionist and take his leave. He'd been dancing for the majority of the day, having started around eleven, and ending just before five. In his head, he's already planning how to greet the receptionist, but without realizing, his feet have taken him back to his little studio in the back of the building, in the eerie parts where students don't typically roam. He stops with his hand on the doorknob.

He heaves a great sigh. Once again he steps into his studio. Inside, he sits on the worn black floor, spreading his fingers on the cool vinyl.

Donne de Grands Airs had asked him to be in the upcoming recital, but as always, Wonshik had refused. "I can't dance that well," had been his reply. Stupid, Wonshik cursed himself. Wonshik had wanted to dance in a recital for Donne de Grands Airs since he first joined the company, and he thought that if he kept refusing roles like this, they wouldn’t want to keep him around anymore. Wonshik huffs and zips open his backpack, shoving his slippers and nearly empty water bottle inside.

He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirrors-- hunched and draped in dingy grey sweatshirt knit. He almost can’t bear to see himself, but his inner voice tells him to it up and brush off and get up to go home. Reluctantly, he listens, rising from the floor and slinging his bag over his shoulder. Sighing, he reaches for the door handle, but the blinds on the door are just slightly skewed. Grimacing, Wonshik fixes them before stepping out of the room.

On his way to the front of the building, Wonshik overhears the class he was watching being let out. The teacher's clear voice rings through the hallway as she thanks the students for their hard work, and dismisses the lesson. Wonshik is still several doors down from that classroom, but his heart can't not speed up when he hears a particular voice worm its way into the cacophony of others. He acts nonchalant as he reaches the classroom door, but it's hard to look nonchalant when peering around a doorframe as though whatever's on the inside is about to jump out.

Inside, the teacher, a willowy woman of about twenty five, is leaning against the small upright piano used for accompanying lessons, speaking with the pianist. The pianist is a man called Taekwoon who looks to be about twenty seven, with rich black hair and narrow eyes with irises so uncannily steady that it makes Wonshik's skin crawl.

Wonshik watches Taekwoon and the teacher speak quietly to each other from his lookout by the door, fingers curled lightly around the jamb and his whole body sweating just ever so slightly. Taekwoon has his hands folded atop his lap—his fingers are very still—and his eyes are trained on the woman before him. She's speaking emphatically and twisting a hand in the air, gesturing along with what she's saying. Taekwoon nods.

"…What I'm saying is, we're running out of money for this. You understand?" Yewon, the teacher, reaches out and grasps Taekwoon's arm. "Honey?"

Taekwoon nods, thoughtfully sticking his tongue in his cheek. "I understand."

"We'll have to compromise with the flowers or something. I don't know how we'll make it work, otherwise." Taekwoon nods again. Yewon gives a tight smile and gently squeezes his arm. "I think… I think it will be fine," she says after a pause, taking her hand away from Taekwoon's arm and reaching to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear.

Wonshik realizes he's holding his breath, and retreats from the door frame to where he can't be seen. Without watching, Wonshik listens in on the rest of Taekwoon and Yewon's brief conversation, and after a few moments, it ends when Yewon shuffles out of the studio classroom, feet now slipped into cork sole sandals, her pointe shoes dangling from their ribbons in her hand and her duffel bag slung over her shoulder. She greets the few straggling students in the hall, smiling kindly and giving encouragement and praise.

Taekwoon breezes past a few seconds later, leather satchel hanging from his shoulder and a sheaf of papers clutched in his left hand. As he passes by Wonshik, Wonshik can smell dried roses—it lingers in the air for almost too long. Taekwoon is quiet, Wonshik knows this much. Quiet much like he himself is, yet somehow braver and gentler at the same time. Wonshik releases the breath he was holding. As Taekwoon's back grows smaller and eventually turns the corner at the end of the hallway, Wonshik remembers that he was leaving the building, and quickly makes his own way to the lobby and out the front door, forgetting to greet the receptionist.

The air outside is thick and humid, and Wonshik hates it. It makes him feel sluggish and sleepy. He guess that it's nearly six o'clock at this point, and sets on his way to the subway station that will take him home to his meager apartment. Knowing the way well, Wonshik allows himself to disconnect and walk on autopilot, losing himself in thoughts that he won't remember in a few moments.

Wonshik doesn't ever think of much. Every once in a while something comes along that he thinks to death, but those bouts tend to end badly, so he tells himself that there isn't anything really worth ruminating on. He lets his feelings come and go like tide—sometimes to his own detriment and to the detriment of others around him. When he was in school, all his teachers and classmates had thought he was slow, daft and emotionally stunted for how much he wore his emotions on his sleeve. Maybe he was, maybe he wasn't. Wonshik didn't want to let them inside his head, and he didn't want them to know just how hard he thought on certain things. Once on the subway, Wonshik pulls out his cassette player again, punching the play button and fitting the oversized headphones over his ears. The sound of Russian classical music floods into his mind, and Wonshik closes his eyes as the subway rocks back and forth. He imagines he's riding along in a giant cradle, letting the images dance behind his eyelids until his stop is announced and he cracks his eyes open just enough to find his way off the subway and up to ground level.

His apartment is quite far from the subway—he winds his way down small and obscure alleys and streets that are littered with trash and forgotten recycling and dirty stray cats until he finds himself at the steps up to his cheap rooftop apartment. It's a small and dark place with cold floors just below the interlocking cheap synthetic wood flooring, and just a few windows in the walls to let a little light in from the street. The windows have bars over them, which has always made Wonshik feel as though he's walking into a mental institution from some kind of dystopic story. The door creaks loudly on its hinges as he steps inside, taking a deep breath of the musty odor of the two room apartment. Toeing off his sneakers at the front door, Wonshik shuffles into his "living room"—a small sofa shoved against the wall that's facing the kitchenette. On all the walls are posters from different ballets, recitals and dance competitions that Wonshik never danced in, all taped haphazardly onto the thin walls. He throws his backpack onto the sofa and pulls off his socks before heading back out the door and around the corner of his apartment to where he has a netted hammock suspended from the deep overhang that edges one side of his apartment, forming a covered patio of sorts. With a happy sigh, he settles into it, gently swinging back and forth, one long leg draped over the side. Wonshik folds his hands behind his head, catching his bleached silver hair between his fingers. He's still listening to his cassette player when he drifts into a wakeful sleep—although he's reached a deep sleep by the time it winds to a stop and leaves him with ringing silence in his ears.