Faradey

The rain outside the bus window flowed down the glass in bizarre zigzags, blurring the lights of the night city into watercolor spots. Faraday pressed his forehead to the cold glass and closed his eyes. A familiar tune was playing quietly in his headphones: "You should cherish my love, cherish my love..." This song became the soundtrack of his last months - a time of waiting, hope and quiet, almost inaudible fear. He was driving from a rehearsal. Soon there would be exams at the choreographic school, and every day was scheduled down to the minute: school, ballet class, school again. The world had narrowed to the size of a dance hall with mirrors reflecting his tired, focused face. It was in these moments of exhaustion that the brightest dreams were born. To the rhythm of the music, he imagined not himself at the barre, but another himself - on the big stage, under the blinding light of the spotlights. Not alone, but with them. With those four people who had become closer to him than any relatives during these six months of joint exhausting training. They were different: the hot-tempered we (y/n), the always calm Dushenka, the quiet Molvin and the perky Alfedov. But together they fit into an ideal puzzle, into a single whole. Their shared dream smelled of sweat, make-up paint and the sweet aroma of tea with lemon after six hours of rehearsals. Faraday caught himself mentally turning to them on the hardest days, to this not yet formed but so desired "we". "You must appreciate my love," the soloist sang, and Faraday understood that this was not a reproach, but a quiet plea. A plea that all this would not be in vain. That their common efforts, their mutual support in the cramped dressing room, their tears after failed elements - that all this would turn into something real. He remembered how we had failed the jump today. Over and over again. Our faces were burning with anger and despair. And without a word, they all stood next to each other. Silently. Just so he could feel that we were not alone. It was their silent language - the language of glances, light touches on the shoulder, hugging the waist of the back before going out to audition. The bus moved off.