who had spent countless hours speculating what it could mean. The fans who revered his work turned
on him. Blaming him for the horrors of that day.
He blames himself too.
Which is why he sits here now, still in the shadows, but no longer hiding. An artist who no longer
creates.
I ache with that same feeling inside of me. That pain and the longing.
What he sees when he stares at his blank paper is the same thing I see in the dance studio.
Repression.
It is in both of our souls.
And this is why Keller Vaughn is my hero.
My inspiration.
And also the reminder of the very thing I am destined to become.
He looks up and meets my gaze. And something softens in his expression. He uses the opportunity
to discard the charcoal in his hand. The one that he never actually used.
“Chloe.”
“Hi, Mr. Vaughn,” I greet him.
I’m still in my ballet attire, but his eyes linger on my face. It is a strange sensation, in my strange
world. When I am so familiar with eyes on my body. Examining me. Studying me. Seeking out the
imperfections. His eyes are on my face. And it is completely devoid of the expectation I am also so
used to seeing.
This is the most we ever speak. These frivolous greetings.
But I want more. I crave more.
Mr. Vaughn will not give it though. He is an island. And I’m surprised he regards me at all, given
the level of work I turn into him.
He doesn’t see the real me.
But I wish he could.
I wish he could see my art. My real art. And that he would give me his honest opinion. That he
would tell me if I’m crazy to want the things I do. To hope for the things I can never have.
He stands up and prepares to leave. He’s dressed in gray trousers and a soft knit navy blue sweater
with a button-up underneath. The same version of clothing he always wears to class. Professional