The air in the Riverside Dance Academy hung heavy with the scent of Tiger Balm and ambition. Naomi Morgan, already pushing her body past its limits, mirrored the corrections of Valentino Beaumont, her formidable instructor. His words, sharp and precise, cut through the studio, shaping not just their bodies, but their very aspirations. \"If this is how you intend to dance at the Youth America Grand Prix this summer, save yourselves the humiliation and do not bother signing up.\"

Naomi felt the familiar burn in her legs, the tremor in her extended arm. She was nearing perfection, she knew it. She had to be. When Valentino's eyes, then everyone else's, landed on her, declaring she had \"a shred of a chance,\" a smile, against her will, escaped onto her face. It was only a barre routine, but his affirmation felt like a promise.

Later, walking home with Jessica, the setting sun painting the sky, they planned their future in the New York City Ballet. Shared dressing rooms, road trips, a life intertwined. Jessica, ever the free spirit, suggested watching the sunrise from the street. Naomi laughed, following her, ready to waste more time with her best friend, whatever \"waste\" meant when it felt so right.

Then came the brief honk, the car, and the world fractured. \"Jessica wasn't moving.\" Naomi screamed.

Now, two weeks later, Naomi's room is reorganized, stripped bare of anything that might hinder practice. The standing mirror from the living room is here, a silent witness. \"Don't listen to her,\" Jessica's voice whispers. Naomi looks up. Jessica is there, in the corner, just as she always is. Just as she always will be.