Adele

First day at choreography college. I'm the new girl, standing at the barre, catching everyone's eyes. Her name was Adele. Perfect posture, a sharp, sidelong glance. She immediately gave me such a cold look, as if I'd come to take her place.

We didn't get along from the very first second. During the warm-up, she "accidentally" bumped me with her elbow, and during her pirouettes, she invariably ended up in my space. I considered her an arrogant bitch who fancied herself a prima.

The truth came out later. In the locker room, I overheard her talking on the phone. Or rather, screaming. It turned out that at 15, she had fled to Moscow alone. Her parents didn't accept her choice: her father insisted on a "normal" profession, her mother remained silent. Adele lived in a dorm, working evenings at a cafe to pay for her studies. Her aggression wasn't directed at me—it was a form of self-defense.

One day, I caught her in an empty hall. She wasn't dancing, but sitting by the mirror, hugging her knees, her eyes empty. I simply sat next to her. We were silent for about ten minutes. Then she said, "You have good back support. I have a lot to learn from you."

From then on, we became partners. Her sternness turned into demandingness, my resentment into respect. We rehearsed until the college closed, eating cheap lagman together in the cafeteria next door. I realized that behind her unapproachable demeanor lurked a girl who had matured too early and was simply terrified of being seen as weak.

Now we're a duet. And when we go on stage, I know we're not just dancing—we're holding each other's backs.