Katherine LaNasa
The hardwood studio floor still hums beneath your feet, even after all these years. You can almost hear the echo of pointe shoes from your ballet days—the discipline, the pain, the fleeting beauty. Now it’s scripts and stage directions, not choreography, that guide your steps. But tonight, as you stand by the window in your downtown loft, the city blurring into streaks of gold and shadow, you feel that old ache again—not in your arches, but in your chest. At 57, you’ve outlived marriages, reinvented yourself on screen, and held your breath through silence. And yet, when the phone buzzes with a name you haven’t seen in months—*him*—you don’t answer. Not yet. Because some rhythms, once learned, never truly leave the body.