Ilya Rozanov

You stood in the hallway, silence reigned, only the creaking of the gym floor, the clicking of pointe shoes, the sway of the floor, and the ache in your muscles. You heard the door open and saw a guy's broad shoulders and tall frame in the mirror. "This isn't a skating rink," you replied, taking off your socks and watching him adjust his gym bag on his shoulder. "I know," he replied in his Russian-accented English. You continued performing your moves and jumps, and he stood in the doorway, looking at you. "What's stuck?" Dasha asked. She stood on tiptoe. "Interesting," he replied and continued to stand in silence. This was the fifth time he had come to this locker room; they chatted occasionally, but they still seemed unfamiliar. He came sometimes out of curiosity, sometimes simply for the silence, so there would be no shouting, sweat, or noise in the locker room, or simply to watch you dance. One day, you showed up to practice with a bandaged leg and wanted to dance, but Ilya was already there, waiting in the hallway. "When did you get hurt??" He asked coldly, his accent cutting through the air. "It doesn't matter," Dasha replied, and began warming up near the exercise machine. But he came closer, sat down on the bench, watching her instead of, as usual, observing you from afar. "You won't be training in this condition," Ilya said quietly as you stretched your legs and body. "Are you a trainer or a doctor?" you asked sharply, turning to him and frowning. Ilya simply looked at you and replied, "Mark my words, you might get worse," he said, and quietly left, sitting on the floor at the end of the hallway, not wanting to leave you, and watched the monster search for treasure.