Yes — she thought — she would have to dance the duet with Dongha, the first and the last one. With just a month left until the performance, she couldn't break that promise now.
"All right. I'll dance Odette. We practiced too much to waste it, right?"
At Yoojin's words, Dongha nodded and finally returned to his seat.
The table where the dance students sat soon filled with chatter.
"Yoojin said she's quitting ballet?"
"Is she out of her mind?"
"What's with Dongha?"
"Are they dating or something?"
"If she's quitting, why is she still dancing Odette?"
"Once you take that scholarship, it's game over. Why throw away a chance like that?"
The whispers grew louder.
Yoojin lowered her gaze, realizing that her declaration, made so boldly in front of everyone, was now turning back on her like a storm.
She felt sorry for them — for the classmates whose hearts still burned only for dance.
"Hey. Quiet."
Dongha's warning cut through the noise. In an instant, the restless hum in the room died down.
Afterward, the department head and homeroom teacher tried to coax and scold her in turns, but Yoojin only apologized. They told her to think it over during festival rehearsals and stood to leave.
The other students filed out of the funeral hall as well, some glancing back at her with cold, resentful eyes — the kind that saw her as an outsider, someone who no longer belonged.
That evening, Yoojin's mother, Lee Jisun, came down to the funeral hall. She looked even thinner than two days before, though the IV drip seemed to have given her back a little strength.
In the resting room, Yoojin handed her the condolence envelope from her teachers and calmly explained everything that had happened.
Her mother looked startled at first but not entirely shocked.
"Mom, it was Dad who wanted me to start ballet, right? Now that he's gone, I think it's time to stop. I'll finish the festival performance properly, but… I think I should quit. I'll just focus on studying, okay?"
"Yoojin, you've done it for eleven years. Isn't it a waste? Didn't you love it?"
"Mom, my feet are full of inflammation from dancing on pointe. If I make a wrong move, I twist my ankle. Do you know ballerinas soak their feet in ice water even in winter?"
"Well, that's true…"
"And if you become a ballerina, you perform a hundred days a year and train for the rest — six hours a day."
"But still, you'd get to dance what you love on stage."
"Didn't adults always say doing what you love and doing it for a living are different things? I just want to study now."
Her mother studied her face, as if searching for something she had missed.
"Yoojin… is this because of money?"
"No, Mom. It's not that. Oh, right — the teachers told me to give you this."
Yoojin handed her the document envelope. Her mother, whose hands were as slender and pale as her daughter's, opened it and began to read. As her eyes moved across the page, they grew wider.
"Yoojin, this is from the Gangrim Cultural Foundation, isn't it?"
"Yeah. The teachers said it came from the chairwoman herself."
Her mother's expression turned complicated.
"What does it say?"
"It's a ten-year contract. The foundation pays tuition as a scholarship, but anything beyond basic living costs — like extra lessons or supplies — has to be repaid. And if we can't repay, the contract extends five more years."
"I see…"
The terms didn't surprise Yoojin — she already knew what they meant. But for her mother, realizing that such a contract could be offered to a child was shocking.
"What do you think, Mom?"
"It's frightening. Your father just passed, and suddenly a sponsorship appears. I guess everyone knows we're out of money now."
Her mother clasped her hands together and pressed them against her forehead. Yoojin gently reached out and held her frail shoulders.
"Mom, don't worry. I really don't want to do ballet anymore. Let's not sign anything like this."
Her pale-faced mother looked up at her. After a moment of silence, she finally spoke.
"You're right. It's a shame to stop, but I don't want you dancing under a contract like this. And honestly, we can't afford it anymore. Even now, it costs us about three million won every month."
"I'm sorry, Mom."
"Why are you sorry, Yoojin? I'm the one who should be. I should've supported everything you wanted to do… I'm sorry."
Tears welled in her mother's eyes again. Yoojin didn't want to see her cry anymore.
"Aah, what a relief!"
She shouted cheerfully, forcing a laugh. Her mother looked at her with a bittersweet smile.
"My girl should've been dancing overseas by now…"
It was true. As a child, Yoojin had dreamed of performing abroad. She had collected videos of foreign ballet companies, believing that her stage belonged outside Korea. Her dream had been to become a principal ballerina in a world-renowned troupe.
But dreams were just dreams. Yoojin understood reality too well.
"It's okay. I need to study now. I've danced enough."
Her mother looked at her daughter's bright smile and wondered — is she really okay?Inside, Jisun felt the crushing weight of her own helplessness.
"Mom, I'll help you. Even without Dad, we'll make it. Together, okay?"
"Yes. I'll stay strong. We'll make it, Yoojin."
"Mom, I love you. Thank you."
Yoojin wrapped her arms around her mother.
*
After the funeral ended, Yoojin went back to school.
More than ten years had passed since that time, yet her school years held no nostalgia for her.People always said they wished they could return to their teenage days — but for Yoojin, those days were filled only with pain, her parents' deaths, and relentless practice.
Now, as she began to imagine a future without ballet, she could finally look back on her teens from a different angle.
"Yoojin!"
As she walked toward the school gate, a loud voice rang out behind her — Seran's.It was so fierce it sounded like a tiger's roar. Yoojin flinched and turned back with an awkward smile.
Seran ran up and threw her arms around her from behind. The sudden weight nearly made Yoojin's knees buckle.
"Hey, I heard you quit ballet?"
"Yeah."
"Why?"
"I just want to try something else."
"Then be a lawyer! Come work at my parents' firm!"
Typical Seran — the daughter of law firm CEOs — always thinking big.
"Me? A lawyer?"
"Why not? Didn't you hear? Law schools just opened last year. No one's applying yet! You don't even need to take the bar exam!"
Yoojin couldn't help laughing. A lawyer? Me? Standing in court, defending someone?Then two thoughts struck her at once — it was 2008, and she had fifteen years of knowledge ahead of everyone else.For the first time, she felt the thrill of true freedom.
After the morning classes, the afternoon brought ballet practice.
Yoojin sat on the cold floor of the rehearsal room, stretching her legs wide apart on the mat, wearing only a leotard and tights. She leaned back, arching her spine.
Her reflection in the mirror — leotard, tights, long limbs — looked strange to her now. In college and the company, she had worn skirts over her leotard or loose shirts and leggings. But in school, tight-fitting leotards were required so the teachers could correct posture and line.
Her fifteen-year-old body was lighter and more flexible than she remembered, though weaker in the core — the strength she'd once built through years of training was still missing.
She placed a small foam roller under her ankles and pushed deeper into the 180-degree stretch. Yes — she was still growing; her inner thigh and gluteal muscles hadn't yet developed like they would in her adult dancer's body.
Carefully, Yoojin checked and loosened every muscle to avoid injury. As warmth spread through her body, she looked around.
The other ballet students were stretching too — but stealing glances at her, whispering, watching.
Pretending not to notice, Yoojin stood and rolled a massage ball under her foot.
Her thirty-year-old feet — in her past life — had been covered in scars and deformed toenails from years of pointe work. But now, her fifteen-year-old feet were smooth and pink.
Wow… I must not have worked hard enough back then, she thought, half-laughing at herself.
She remembered that in the national ballet company, there had hardly been a single time when all ten toenails were intact. These clean, unscarred feet felt like a miracle.
Just then, the door opened. Their instructor, Kang Nari, walked in.
She had once been a demi-soloist at the Korean National Ballet, now a teacher recruited by the Gangrim Cultural Foundation to train young dancers. She was also choreographing the upcoming festival.
But Yoojin already knew — Kang Nari, too, had once been sponsored by the foundation.When her market value as a performer declined, they had brought her here to teach.Perhaps, Yoojin thought, this woman was seeing her own reflection in Yoojin.
The sharp-eyed instructor scanned the students — and her gaze stopped on Yoojin.
By now, everyone in the department must have heard the story.
The performance was only three weeks away. The piece was Swan Lake — the same ballet she knew by heart — though the choreography had been simplified for middle school students.
"What are you doing? Why aren't you doing barre stretches?"