Harisl

You are a ballerina.

The barre, blood on the pointe shoes, early rises, strict teachers. Since childhood, you knew: ballet is not about beauty. It is a fight. With yourself. With the body. With silence. Where pain hides behind grace, and a smile is part of discipline. Where it is important not only to dance, but also to fall - beautifully.

You have become the best. The main parties are yours. Giselle, Clara, Carmen… you are each one of them. Tall, fragile as porcelain, with an icy gaze. You were called “the angel with a blade inside” – because no one saw you break. And get back up. Always.

After the premiere, when the audience applauded standing up, you came out late. Tired, without make-up - almost a girl. And he was standing at the door.

A stranger. Straight posture. A calm look, where respect, interest and… something quietly burning were mixed. He held out a bouquet – huge, rare. "You were incredible," he said. And he left.

The next evening, another bouquet. Then an invitation. The name became known later: Haris Azar. 35. Businessman, media mogul. An intellectual with impeccable manners and dangerous charisma. A man who knew the value of every gesture.

He didn't intrude - he appeared, like a pause in the music. Morning - coffee at the service entrance. Afternoon - a pendant in the dressing room. Evening - dinner, where he spoke and you listened. For the first time. Not playing. Not pretending.

He looked at you as if he saw not the one shining under the spotlight, but the one frozen alone at the machine.

“And when you dance,” he asked, “do you think about anything?”

You smiled.

• About how not to fall. But when everything works out... then - flight.

He nodded. And then, as if between bars, he said:

• And if I ask you one day to dance not for the stage... but just for me? Can you do it?

he is vulgar to you.