CRAZY DANCER

The early morning sunlight spilled through the thin lace curtains, casting golden shapes across the polished wooden floor. The faint rhythm of classical music floated through the air, blending with the sound of bare feet brushing lightly across the ground. Twelve-year-old Lizzie twirled with an energy so natural, so free, it was as though the music had been written just for her body to interpret.

Her arms extended like wings, her legs moved with fluidity, and her eyes sparkled with the joy of doing what she loved most-dancing.

On the edge of the room, leaning against the doorframe with a steaming cup of tea in hand, stood her mother, Evelyn James. She watched her daughter with awe, her heart swelling every time Lizzie leapt, spun, and landed as though gravity itself favored her. She was light, air, freedom.

"Lizzie," her mother called gently. "You're going to wear the floor out before breakfast."

Lizzie giggled, breathing heavily but refusing to stop. "Just one more routine, Mama. Just one."

Evelyn stepped inside, placing her tea down and clapping along. "One more, but then it's pancakes. Deal?"

"Deal!" Lizzie beamed and threw herself back into motion, her pink nightgown fluttering like flower petals as she danced barefoot.

These were the mornings Lizzie lived for-sunlight, music, and her mother's encouraging presence and words. Her father, Mr. James, was often away early handling business at his logistics company, but her mother was always home, always watching, always smiling.

When the music finally faded, Lizzie collapsed onto the couch, her hair sticking to her forehead. Evelyn handed her a glass of water.

"You're gifted, Lizzie," her mother said, brushing damp strands from her daughter's brow. "You don't just dance. You speak with your body. People will feel you before they even understand you."

Lizzie grinned. "You think I can become a real ballerina one day?"

"I don't just think so. I know it."

Those words stuck to Lizzie's heart like glue-warm, comforting, irreplaceable.

That evening, their family sat around the dinner table, laughter echoing off the cream-colored walls. Her father had come home early for once, joking about how burnt the roast was, though it was anything but. Lizzie sat between them, swinging her legs beneath the table, telling them stories of her new dance move and the teacher who called her "an unstoppable force of rhythm."

Her father chuckled. "Just don't knock over another classmate with your 'unstoppable force.' I had to sign an apology letter last time."

Lizzie laughed, her cheeks flushed. "I was just too excited."

"Excited is good," her mother chimed in. "As long as you don't end up dancing on the dining table."

Lizzie looked at the table.

"Don't even think about it," her father warned, wagging a fork at her.

She giggled but sat back down. Life was full. Life was sweet.

And then... it wasn't.

The following week, Evelyn complained of chest pain.

At first, it was dismissed as stress or exhaustion. A few visits to the doctor turned into a string of hospital tests. Lizzie was kept home more, often dancing alone while her father spent hours with her mother in the hospital.

Still, every night, Evelyn called to ask Lizzie what moves she practiced that day.

"Don't stop dancing, no matter what," she always said. "Promise me."

"I promise."

The final phone call came late at night. Lizzie was dozing on the living room couch, her feet sore from practicing in silence. The phone rang. Her father answered. His voice cracked.

Lizzie awoken by the call knew even before he turned to her.

The funeral was filled with flowers, but Lizzie didn't smell them. She didn't cry when people whispered condolences or said Evelyn was "in a better place." She stood like a statue in a pale blue dress, her ballet slippers tucked inside her coat pocket.

She didn't dance for weeks.

Her father broke down that night, holding her in his arms, both of them curled on the living room floor. He kept whispering, "We'll get through this... we'll get through this."

But things were never the same.

One Year Later

Her father remarried.

The woman's name was Mrs. Clarisse Monroe. She was elegant, always immaculately dressed, with thin lips and sharp, assessing eyes. She had two daughters, Tina and Mara, both a few years older than Lizzie. From the very beginning, they looked at Lizzie with barely hidden contempt.

The first time Lizzie met them, her father was beaming. "You'll finally have sisters to play with!"

Clarisse pulled Lizzie into a side hug. "And I'll take care of you like you're one of my own."

But Lizzie felt it-like a cold breath at the back of her neck. Something wasn't feeling right.

Within weeks of moving in, her routines changed.

Her mother's dance music was removed from the living room.

Her pink leotards and worn slippers were tossed into the attic.

When Lizzie complained, Clarisse smiled sweetly. "It's not proper anymore. Dancing won't help you survive. You need to learn discipline."

At night, Tina and Mara mocked her, calling her "the freak ballerina." They'd switch off her music halfway through her practices and pour water on her costumes. Once, they locked her in the laundry room for hours just before a school recital.

When she cried to Clarisse, her stepmother offered her a glass of water and said calmly, "If you ever tell your father about this, I'll make sure your life becomes a nightmare. You hear me?"

Lizzie nodded, trembling.

She didn't tell.

Her father remained oblivious. He left early, returned late, and thought Lizzie was simply "adjusting."

"She's growing up," Clarisse would say. "Girls her age get moody always."

He believed her.

Lizzie stopped dancing-at least in the open. But every night, when the house fell quiet, she locked her door, turned on soft music in her earbuds, and danced in the moonlight.

It was the only time she felt like her mother was watching.

Three Years Later – Age 16

Lizzie walked home from school, bag slung over her shoulder, her ballet shoes stuffed inside though she no longer had a studio to go to. She hadn't been allowed to join the school dance club.

But she still danced-beneath bridges, inside old bus stops, or in the quiet corners of the city park.

That day, she ducked into her usual hidden spot-a quiet square between two abandoned shops. There, music echoed from an old Bluetooth speaker she had hidden beneath a bench. She slipped off her shoes, pulled on her tattered flats, and let the music consume her.

She didn't notice the figure standing at the far end, hidden in the shadows.

Axel Rivers, internationally known dancer and choreographer, leaned against the wall with headphones hanging around his neck. He had stopped in that alley to clear his head, away from the screaming fans and dance industry politics.

But then he saw her.

He was used to dancers with polished technique, stiff routines, and ego. But this girl... this girl moved like she felt the music in her bones.

There was sorrow in her arms, fire in her turns, and a desperation he hadn't seen in years.

And just like that, she was gone.

Later that evening, Lizzie was walking home, crossing a busy junction when she bumped into someone.

Their shoulders hit, and her books scattered on the ground.

"Oh! I'm so sorry," she gasped, kneeling down to gather them.

The man stooped to help. "It's okay. My fault, really."

Their hands brushed briefly.

Lizzie glanced up. Their eyes met.

For a split second, something flickered in her chest-familiarity, maybe.

But she shook it off.

"Thanks," she mumbled and hurried away.

Axel stood still, watching her disappear into the crowd.

He narrowed his eyes.

"...Have we met before."