I went to the Performing Arts School and studied classical

Host: The city slept under a curtain of smog and moonlight, its skyline a jagged heartbeat of steel and loneliness. A single streetlight flickered outside an abandoned dance studio — its windows fogged, its mirrors cracked. Inside, dust floated like tired snow in the thin blue light of a forgotten dream.

Jeeny stood by the barre, her hand tracing the wood’s faded smoothness. She was barefoot, her hair tied loosely, her reflection fractured in a dozen imperfect shards. Jack leaned against the wall, his coat still damp from the rain, a half-smoked cigarette between his fingers.

The words Jeeny had just whispered — Carmen Electra’s words — still hung in the stale air: “I went to the Performing Arts School and studied classical ballet. That attitude is something that’s put into your head. You are never thin enough.”

Jeeny: “It’s strange, isn’t it? The idea that beauty can be a prison — that discipline can eat the soul.”

Jack: “It’s not strange. It’s inevitable. Every art built on perfection ends up devouring its own believers.”

Jeeny: “You sound cynical.”

Jack: “No. I sound realistic. The world doesn’t reward balance. It rewards obsession.”

Host: A beam of light slipped through a crack in the ceiling, catching on the thin dust suspended in air. For a moment, it looked like time itself was dancing. Jeeny turned to face him — her eyes dark pools of defiance and fatigue.

Jeeny: “You think obsession is the price of greatness?”

Jack: “Isn’t it? Look at every legend we worship. Dancers who starved, painters who went mad, scientists who forgot to live. The world claps for the broken ones.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe the world’s applause isn’t worth much.”

Jack: “Tell that to a dancer trained to see her body as a battleground. To a ballerina, perfection isn’t a dream — it’s a duty. You can’t unlearn that.”

Jeeny: “No one’s born believing they’re never enough. That’s something taught — drilled into them until it becomes truth.”

Host: Her voice trembled slightly, not with weakness, but with memory. The mirrors caught her reflection and shattered it into fragments — a thousand versions of herself, all looking back with silent accusation.

Jack: “You’ve danced before, haven’t you?”

Jeeny: “Once. Long ago. I remember the sound of my teacher’s stick tapping the floor. The words — ‘straighter, thinner, higher.’ They stayed. You stop being a person. You become a line — a silhouette that never satisfies its own shadow.”

Jack: “And yet, you kept going.”

Jeeny: “Because I thought pain meant purpose.”

Host: Jack stubbed out his cigarette on the cracked floor, his eyes tracing her quiet defiance. The rain outside pattered harder against the windows, like applause from ghosts.

Jack: “You know, I’ve always envied that discipline. That kind of devotion to something, even when it hurts.”

Jeeny: “That’s because you mistake self-destruction for dedication. There’s a difference.”

Jack: “Maybe. But without that edge, without that hunger, no one creates anything worth remembering.”

Jeeny: “That’s what they want you to believe — that art and suffering are twins. But suffering doesn’t make art sacred. It just makes it sad.”

Jack: “Tell that to the history books. Every great artist is half martyr, half addict.”

Jeeny: “And every great artist dies twice — once in their body, once in their self-worth.”

Host: The light flickered again. The studio seemed smaller now, the air heavier, as if the walls themselves remembered the pressure of perfection — the long, hollow echo of music meant to break bones into beauty.

Jack: “So what, you’re saying discipline is the enemy?”

Jeeny: “No. Discipline is the spine. But when it’s poisoned by shame, it stops holding you up. It starts choking you.”

Jack: “You think that poison ever leaves?”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But you learn to dance with it instead of against it.”

Host: She took a step toward the mirror, her bare feet whispering on the floor. She lifted her arms in slow, deliberate motion — a faded echo of a once-practiced arabesque. The movement was imperfect, trembling, but human.

Jack watched silently. His grey eyes softened — something between respect and sorrow.

Jack: “You know what’s cruel? The world doesn’t even remember the names of most of them — the dancers who starved for the stage. They disappear once their bodies give out. Only the myth remains.”

Jeeny: “Because the myth is lighter than the body. Easier to love.”

Jack: “So you stop being a person and become an idea.”

Jeeny: “And ideas don’t eat, don’t sleep, don’t cry. They just perform.”

Host: Her voice broke on that last word. The room fell into a deep silence, broken only by the faint drip of water from the roof. Jack stepped closer, his shadow merging with hers on the wall.

Jack: “Maybe it’s not just ballet. Maybe it’s all of us — pretending to be thinner, smaller, more acceptable than we are.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Ballet is just a mirror for the world’s obsession with perfection. The difference is, in ballet, you can see the bones.”

Jack: “So what’s the cure?”

Jeeny: “To stop dancing for the applause. To move because you must — not because someone’s watching.”

Jack: “You make it sound easy.”

Jeeny: “It’s not. But it’s the only way to be free.”

Host: A shiver passed through the room, not from cold but from truth. Jeeny’s reflection trembled as she lowered her arms, her breath steadying. Jack stepped beside her, both of them facing the mirror — two imperfect figures framed by the ghosts of all who had once tried to be flawless.

Jack: “You know, Carmen Electra’s quote — it’s tragic because it’s not just about dance. It’s about how society raises us all to be ‘never enough.’”

Jeeny: “Especially women. You’re trained to vanish beautifully. To disappear gracefully.”

Jack: “And men — we’re taught to hide the breaking. To look solid even when hollow.”

Jeeny: “So maybe everyone’s just performing — pretending to fit a part they never auditioned for.”

Jack: “A world of uninvited dancers.”

Jeeny: “Yes. And none of us realize we can leave the stage.”

Host: The rain stopped. The silence that followed was vast — the kind that comes when sound itself gives up pretending. The light through the window grew gentler, as if even the night pitied them.

Jack: “You ever think about dancing again?”

Jeeny: “Every day. But not like before. Now, I dance in my kitchen when the kettle hums. I dance when I cry. No one claps, no one judges. It’s just movement — just breath.”

Jack: “That sounds… pure.”

Jeeny: “It is. Because for the first time, I’m not trying to disappear.”

Host: She smiled, faint but luminous — the kind of smile born from scars that have finally turned into skin. Jack nodded, his hands slipping into his pockets, his gaze lingering on the mirror one last time.

Jack: “Maybe that’s the real art — not in being perfect, but in surviving the lie that you have to be.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. To move despite the wound — that’s the real dance.”

Host: Outside, the moon climbed higher, spilling pale light across the studio’s floorboards. The mirrors, once fractured, seemed to hold a strange peace now — as if imperfection itself had become beautiful.

Jeeny turned toward the door. “Come on,” she whispered. “Let’s get out of here before the ghosts start warming up again.”

Jack chuckled, low and rough, the sound echoing off the walls.

They stepped out into the cool night — two figures no longer performing, no longer thin enough to vanish. Just human enough to stay.

And as the studio fell back into darkness, the last beam of light touched the barre — still, silent, eternal — a relic of a world that once mistook pain for grace.