Page 4 of Run, Starlight (The Royal Ballet Presents #3)

MARCELLA

The silence settles in when the last group leaves, and their voices die down as they reach the end of the hall.

Once alone, I check the notifications I saw early this morning.

My video from yesterday is still going, but why stop when you’re hot?

I’m still missing that usual surge of dopamine, but maybe I’ll get it after this post.

I prop my phone on the floor and test the angle for the shot.

This is my little secret, the one thing I do for myself and all of them .

Four years ago, I shared a video online of myself dancing.

It was to look for mistakes, and when I didn’t find any, I decided to post on a whim.

Just like that, The Myrtha Queen was born.

The handle is a spin on a character from my favorite ballet, Giselle , and a clear call out to myself.

Just like Myrtha, I dance until exhaustion while suffering from a broken heart.

The numbers climbed, and I gained followers quickly even though I never engaged with any comment.

I didn’t quite understand how I became addicted to it at first. Solitude was never a problem for me.

I don’t get along well with others and don't need the attention.

I was already performing regularly in front of an audience.

Honestly, sometimes the reactions to it stress me, but other times, it’s a high unlike any other.

That’s what art is about, evoking emotion.

Despite the ups and downs, it feels good to share myself with the world in a safe way, a way that doesn’t make me cringe and sweat at all the contaminants.

Art was never meant to be left in the shadows.

Someone out there needs the music just as much as I do, or maybe I just need another hit to get by.

Whatever my reasons, I press play and start my routine.

Ballet is the foundation of my choreography, the ground on which I build other things.

I take jazz dance, which has very similar steps to the mix, and I bring the energy up with modern dance.

Last summer, I learned belly dancing, and I’ve been incorporating that too.

The moves come out of me as if they want to connect with the music, and I am their instrument.

My eyes fill with tears, even as my brain can’t quite follow the sadness weighing on my chest. The music translates what is inside, and I dance as the tears run down my cheeks.

That’s a part of many of my videos, but not all.

It happens when you dance as a means of self-expression, and the self you are expressing is so dark and twisted.

Fabrizio dies a thousand times in front of me.

I see his eyes and his smile, and I hear his voice.

I pirouette into madness, my heartbeat speeds, and I pour everything into the dance.

The music takes my sadness away, even for just a little while, and by the time I reach my final pose, I’m empty of the sorrow and filled with art instead.

The tears eventually dry because they always do. All things must eventually end.

When I grab the phone back, I find two messages from my mother, but I can’t deal with that now, so I just ignore them and upload my latest video.

I can’t poke my wounds, not when I feel at peace.

My mother and I have an extremely complicated relationship—always have.

The endorphins won’t last long, so I plan to savor them.

I guess I truly am addicted to the chemicals I can force out of my own brain.

I pack up and head back home without bothering to read what my mother said.

When I return to our room, Anna is nowhere to be found, just like she said, and I’m grateful.

Dancer housing isn’t glamorous, but it’s one of the perks of the company.

I’m not forced to live here, and I wouldn’t if my options weren’t so grim.

My parents don’t live far. I could easily live with them or, with a little more struggle, get my own place, but I need to be away from the mausoleum we call home, and this was an easy answer.

My parents’ home isn’t a home anymore. It’s a museum to the favorite child they lost. Fabrizio’s pictures hang on every wall.

His bedroom remains exactly the same as he left it.

My bedroom is also the same as before, minus the blood splatter they painted over, but in the dark of night, I swear the outline glows.

The company accommodation is the best alternative for me, given how much worse the nightmares are at home.

It’s selfish, seeing as how much of a burden I am, but I’m unsure how to survive.

Now on my third roommate, I wait until Floquet decides I’m too much trouble.

Maybe I should make the move myself so I don’t jeopardize my place in the company as well, but the thought of sleeping in the room where he died makes my skin crawl.

Moving to the bathroom, I start the shower, turning it as hot as possible.

My clothes have grown cold, and I refuse to think about the sensation as they drop wetly to the floor.

My phone is blowing up, and my fingers tingle with the first hints of that dopamine I was missing.

I click on the post, confused why I have so many comments this fast.

_doralisss: Girl what

heartofa_tramp: Dude, is she safe?

heather554: This is so creepy

Those are not the only comments. One after the other, they keep coming, always wondering about my safety. Goosebumps break on my arms, and I lean against the wall, scrolling through them all, trying to understand what is happening.

What are they talking about? Can they see how I’m teetering on the edge?

Bookhoarder86: It’s probably just part of the performance. Y’all freaking out because of a paid actor lol

What is part of the performance? My hands tremble as I close the comments and press play on the video.

I follow each of my steps, my heart trying to escape my own rib cage as I watch without even drawing a breath.

There’s nothing wrong per se, perfect moves, an intensity that might unsettle—“Oh god.” I gasp.

A man stands at the back of the stage. His shape is so similar to the one I saw on the street early this morning, the one I wasn’t sure was a man at all.

Now it’s clear that someone is watching me.

My heart races as I grow more certain of what I’m seeing.

I check the room around me like I’ll find him in the bathroom beside me, but of course I’m alone.

He hides backstage; the shadows provide him safety, but he’s there.

The breath catches in my throat, the exhilarating sensation I felt the first time I went viral mixes with fear until I’m vibrating, finally feeling something other than pain.

My knees are weak and my mouth dry, yet I can’t stop looking.

I don’t move to get in the shower. Instead, I watch the video again and again, always trying to catch a glimpse of his face.

I pause it at every frame, and still, I can’t see anything.

Someone stood in the background and watched me as I poured my heart out.

For the first time in so many years, I was truly not alone.

Someone was there at my lowest moment. Someone who wasn’t invited.

I gasp for air, emotions exploding in my chest. Why was he watching me?

What did he want to see? Did I give it to him?

a crazy voice inside me asks. Will he come again?

And why the hell would I want something like that?

People argue in the comments whether I planned this or not.

At every interaction, the views climb, and it doesn’t take long to be my most-watched video by far.

Finally, I can’t watch anymore because the sensation of my own skin is too much for me.

I place my phone down and get under the spray, closing my eyes as the water washes over me.

How many other times was he watching me, and why?

Does that actually matter when someone is stalking you?

And I’m at least partially convinced that’s what’s happening between the street and the studio in just a few hours of each other.

To me, the motives count for a lot. Perhaps that’s my most unhinged thought yet, but I’m at my most vulnerable when I put on these performances. I scream in terror through the night.

The motivation is everything. The idea of someone being there for me through it is oddly appealing. Who would watch from the dark corners instead of running? Those routines and those tears are usually much too intense for people. Who would seek me out at such a low?

I shake my head at myself. Am I this pathetic?

I wish he had spoken to me and told me why he kept watching.

If anyone was watching last night. God, maybe it was someone just walking their dog.

That could have just been a man standing on the street.

I snort at myself. Why would someone be obsessed enough to stalk me?

I didn’t even see if there was a man-shaped prop before jumping to conclusions.

Thousands of people interact with my content every day, but this time feels different. This time, I find myself craving a two-sided connection.

The water does as I hope, and all that adrenaline settles down.

I love the intense rush. I can’t stand its intensity forever, but a pleasurable sensation is left in its wake.

A pleasurable heat buzzes between my legs.

I lick my lips, and before a second of doubt, I slip my hand between my legs.

The first thing I find is the barbell perfectly nestled through the sensitive flesh of my hood.

The sensation is so intense that my hips buck when I first rub it.

Chills race down my arms. Intense orgasms are another chemical addiction of mine.

The image of him watching me hangs behind my eyelids as I chase the orgasm.

He’s out there, watching me and hiding in the shadows.

I feel warm, protected, and seen. His eyes on me make my toes curl on the tile.

Under this water spray, I don’t judge myself for feeling like this.

I want to feel it. I need it badly, and my body is in agreement.

My nipples are stiff peaks, my breasts heavy when I let out a whimper.

My hand works fast, and my piercing heightens the experience.

I need it…

I need him to watch.

Fuck, I want to come for him.