"Cores of the Core."
"Run for the Finish Line."
"What Makes Your Pace."
Stella set the three books down on the cubicle desk one by one, stacking them up in a small pillar. The covers were clean and glossy, and the spines looked too thick to be reasonable for anything a student was expected to read or enjoy. Only three, and it already felt like she'd hauled a whole shelf over.
She stared at them until her eyes stopped wandering.
No. She didn't dare to back off before she even started. She'd already spent too many nights telling herself she would "improve next time."
If she really wanted to learn more, she needed sources other than online websites and Weetube tutorials.
The chair scraped when she pulled it out. The sound was loud in the quiet room, but nobody shushed her and nobody looked up. Nobody was even close enough to care. The "quiet room" section sat behind a glass door with a frosted strip across the middle, and inside it the library noise softened into a distant hum. A couple of cubicles were lit up, and most of the dividers were empty. Schoolwork zone. It was usually used for cramming. Private little boxes where people could have all the concentration they need.
Stella dropped into her chair and leaned forward, forearms on the plastic-covered desk. The surface felt cold against her skin, even under the lights. Her ears flicked once when a page somewhere in the room turned, then settled again.
She pulled Cores of the Core toward her first, mostly because the title sounded like it was supposed to be simple.
The cover creaked when she opened it.
She got through the first yellowed page. Then the next. Then she hit the part where it stopped being "core strength" and started being… whatever this was.
Okay. What on green pastures was a pyramidalis muscle, and how was she supposed to "engage" it on command? The author wrote about it like you could flip it on and off.
The diagram wasn't of help. The picture showed a faded body with barely seen labels and arrows, everything shaded in gray. Nothing like the real thing. Nothing like her body, which showed up as soreness day after day, and legs that felt strong on paper but never seemed to translate into speed where it mattered.
She tried to follow the stretch they described anyway. It told her to keep her spine "neutral" while engaging the "deep stabilizers," and she sat there in her chair wondering if her spine had ever been neutral in her life. She adjusted her posture, tried again, felt a dull pinch in her lower back, and stopped before she did something stupid.
Her eyes kept dropping back to the words.
Half the page was terms she didn't know. The other half was terms she thought she knew until the book used them in a way that made her doubt herself. It wasn't even trying to be friendly about it. It assumed the reader already had a foundation, already had a proper trainer, already had a healthy body that could run for miles.
Then she hit a section that started talking about fuel and recovery, and suddenly she was reading about hormones and scent markers and "behavioral feedback," and she had to stare at the sentence twice before it registered that she was basically holding an anatomy book disguised as fitness.
Seriously. What was all this?
She flipped back to the table of contents, hoping she'd missed something obvious, and the headings just got more and more complex. If anything, they got worse. Everything branched into more branches. More terms. More things she didn't have time to learn.
She forced herself to keep going anyway.
Ten pages. Fifteen. Twenty.
By page thirty, her head felt hot from forcing her brain through that reading marathon.
Stella slumped forward and rested her forehead against her forearm, letting the plastic desk chill the side of her face through her sleeve. It fixed nothing, but it stopped her from grinding her teeth.
She lifted her head again, her gaze dropped to her backpack sitting on the floor beside the cubicle. The zipper was half open from earlier. She stared at it, then finally reached down and pulled it closer.
The tablet came out like it always did. The screen was cracked in the corner, spider lines running out. It felt stupidly comforting in her hands—even though it was the same thing that got her into this mess.
She propped it up using the other two books as a stand, angling it so the overhead light wouldn't glare off the screen.
Hoofle Roam loaded with its bright spiral logo and the too-cheerful colors.
If she didn't understand the terms here, she'd do it the old way. Not a dictionary—she didn't dare drag out one of those bricks too. She'd just search. One word. Then the next. Then the next term inside the explanation. The same way she used to ask Mama what words meant when she was little, except now there was no Mama, and the answers came from strangers on the internet who didn't know her.
Fine. It worked before. It would work now.
She tapped into the search bar and started.
The first term turned into three more terms. Those three turned into a diagram. The diagram turned into a video. The video had comments arguing about whether the technique even mattered. Someone used another word she didn't know in the argument. She searched that too.
Stella blinked hard and rubbed one eye with her knuckle.
She didn't notice the movement beside her until it was almost gone.
A head of black hair, braided on both sides, slipped into her peripheral vision two cubicles away. The girl stood up quietly, gathered her things with small, careful motions, and left the quiet room. She'd been there the whole time, and Stella hadn't noticed.
Stella's ears twitched.
How long had she been there?
She stared at the empty cubicle after the girl left, expecting… well. Nothing, really.
The door clicked shut and the quiet went back to normal.
She looked back down at her tablet and kept scrolling.
~**~
The clock read 6:00 p.m. by the time her eyes lifted again.
Her stomach gave a small, empty twist and the headache behind her eyes pulsed again. She realized she'd been sitting in this box for hours without even feeling time pass.
Cram school time. That was the only reason the librarian hadn't kicked her out earlier.
All that time, and she'd made it through five pages.
Not even five pages of progress—five pages of her getting stuck, searching, getting stuck again, clicking into a lesson, replaying the same part three times, and still not being sure if she understood it right. Every explanation kept leaning on another explanation, and the chain never ended. Every answer led to another answer, and none of them felt like the one she needed.
Stella pressed her fingers to her temples and held them there until the ache dulled enough for her to move.
She was lucky her apartment was close. She wouldn't have to take a long commute in the dark.
She looked down at the three books again.
Stella closed Cores of the Core with more force than she meant to. She stacked them up and carried them over to the return pile with both hands.
Basics. She needed basics first. That was clear.
She should've asked the librarian for something introductory instead of grabbing whatever looked important and expensive and "serious." She should've known better. She always did this. Jump to the hardest thing and then get angry.
But… it wasn't all useless. She could admit that much.
Uma bodies weren't just legs. That was a common misconception.
The book made it clear it was almost everything.
Different muscle distribution, sure, but also the way the body handled stress. The way recovery worked. The way adrenaline could spike, regulate, spike again without the same crash a human would get. Even the brain—parts tied to drive, emotion, the instinct that made an Uma lock onto a goal.
Stella stood there by the return pile with the books stacked neatly, her arms suddenly feeling tired in a different way.
~**~
The next day, she was back in the music room, sorting papers on the floor.
STELLA UMBRA
Age: 16
Ear type: Forward
Tail type: Long, straight
Contact: +XXXXXXXXXX / [email protected]
Address: Lot 41 Abergine Street (30 minutes commute)
Skills: Alto/Mezzo. Beginner–Intermediate dance (self-taught). Pop. Idol.
Special: endurance from track, basic choreography learning, beginner harmonies, can perform after heavy physical activity.
Experience: class dance competition, festival performance, practice recordings.
Training: self-trained dance via videos, weekly practice.
Availability: weekdays after school, weekends.
Photos:
Right. Photos.
She didn't have proper headshots. She had old pictures that looked like "school ID" and "random phone camera," and she wasn't about to show up with something that screamed I'm poor and I don't know what I'm doing.
She opened Hoofle Roam, searched "cheap photo printing near me," then flicked over to Pacebook again because she'd seen it earlier. The ad was still there—bright colors, exclamation marks, and a picture of a smiling group in matching outfits.
LOOKING FOR DANCERS / IDOL TRAINEES
Walk-in auditions today until 6 PM.
Bring: performer resume, short interview
She packed the brown envelope first because she couldn't stand the thought of bending anything. Receipts, school reference papers, her last race registration copy, and the e-signature printout her distant relative had sent months ago. She'd been using that signature for every consent form that needed one. It wasn't ideal. It was what she had.
When she shoved it into her bag, it made a soft paper-crunch.
She left the empty dance room and locked it like always, then hurried down the quiet hallway with her resume file open on her phone.
Halfway to the stairs, she rounded the corner too fast and collided with someone.
Shoulder to shoulder.
Both of them stumbled back.
"Ah—!"
Glasses clattered against the tiles and skidded.
The other girl dropped into a crouch immediately, hands feeling around the tiles like she couldn't see anything without them. Stella paused for a bit, then crouched too and grabbed the glasses first.
Thin frame and smudged lens.
Stella held them out.
The girl's fingers brushed hers when she took them. When the girl pushed them back onto her nose, Stella got a better look.
Black hair. Braided on both sides.
Up close, her eyes looked even bigger. She looked nervous. Her pupils darted to Stella's hands, Stella's bag, Stella's ears—then away.
Stella stood up. The girl stood too. For a second they just stared at each other.
Stella opened her mouth to say something.
Until the other girl beat her to it.
"Sorry," the girl said. Then she turned and hurried off.
Stella watched her go, mouth still half open.
…Okay.
That was weird.
~**~
The print shop smelled like hot ink and cheap plastic. Stella handed over her phone, watched the staff tap through menus, then felt her brows scrunch when the total came up.
She paid anyway.
By the time she reached the audition building, the sun had shifted lower, and her shirt clung to her back from rushing. It wasn't even hot. Her body just wouldn't stop sweating when she got nervous.
The lobby was small. Posters on the walls. A plastic stand with flyers that promised DREAMS in bold font. A speaker in the corner playing a looping upbeat track that made her want to grind her teeth.
A staff member took her resume without looking at her face for long.
"Name?"
"Stella Umbra."
"Age?"
"Sixteen."
The staff member nodded, handed her a number, and pointed. "Wait there."
Stella sat. Her knee started bouncing immediately. She pinned it down with her palm, but it still tried to move under her skin.
Other girls were there. They were laughing and talking to each other, some fixing hair clips and smoothing their skirts. One girl practiced a cute wink in her phone camera and looked pleased with herself.
Stella kept her hands in her lap.
She didn't practice smiling. She didn't know what smile they wanted.
"Number… 4? Stella Umbra?"
Her stomach flipped.
She stood and followed the staff down a hallway that smelled like air freshener.
They put her in a small room with a folding table and two men sitting behind it.
One wore a cap and a white shirt, his eyes already on her resume. The other had his elbow on the table, hand cupping his face.
He didn't look relaxed. He looked tired.
"Sit," he said.
Stella sat in the plastic chair. It creaked.
The man with the cap flipped her resume and scanned it without looking up.
The tired man spoke first.
"So. Stella Umbra." He said it like he was tasting the name. "Why do you want to be an idol?"
Stella's throat went dry. She had an answer ready. She'd practiced it. She'd practiced three versions.
Just pick one. Don't stumble. Don't ramble. Don't sound like a robot.
"I want to be an idol because I like singing and dancing," she said, too stiff. "And I practice a lot. And I work hard. And I think I would be good."
"...Alright."
The other man with the cap slid a finger down her resume, stopped.
"This signature." He tapped the page. "Why is it printed?"
"Oh—because my guardian and I live apart. He sent me an e-signature for forms."
The tired man nodded like he was processing it, then asked without thinking too hard, "Where are your parents?"
Stella froze.
The tired guy's eyes flicked to the one with the cap.
The tired man blinked, then cleared his throat. "Forget that. Sorry. Off topic."
Stella swallowed and forced her shoulders down. Her ears were doing that thing where they wanted to flatten but she wouldn't let them.
"Role model," the tired man said, like he was moving along a checklist. "Who's your role model?"
"A.P. Indy."
The cap guy paused his pen.
"Why?" he asked.
Stella leaned forward before she could stop herself. "Because she's consistent. She wins. She's always… on top form. She doesn't miss steps. She looks happy when she performs. I practice to her songs and dances."
The tired man nodded slowly. "Okay. That's good."
He flipped a paper over. "So, charm point. What do you think your charm point is?"
Charm point.
Stella stared at him.
Her charm point was that she wasn't a quitter. Her charm point was that she didn't have time to quit. Her charm point was that she could run until she vomited and still show up.
None of those sounded like "idol."
"I… work hard," she said again.
The cap guy's pen stopped. Then moved again.
The tired man smiled, but it wasn't reaching his eyes. "Alright. Let's hear you sing. Don't worry. It's a popular song, so it should be easy enough."
He slid a printed lyric sheet toward her.
Stella's eyes dropped.
She barely recognized it, maybe it was mentioned by some of her classmates. She had no idea what the key or rhythm was. She didn't even know how the chorus was supposed to hit.
Her fingers tightened on the paper.
She inhaled.
-----
Outside, the sun was lower, and the air felt cool against her face—which should've been nice.
She stood at the bus stop with her resume folder pressed to her chest, watching headlights pass.
"We'll contact you."
If we needed you. She's sure that was left unsaid.
She stared at the timetable until the numbers blurred, then blinked hard and waited.
~**~
"Huaaa… pheww."
Stella bent forward with her hands on her knees and let the air drag itself back into her lungs. Sweat clung to her temple, ran behind her ear and trickled down. She wiped it with the back of her wrist.
This was nice.
She should've come here earlier.
The park wasn't some perfect place. The path was cracked, patched and uneven, and the grass was overgrown in spots. But it wasn't the gym or the dance room. No stale rubber peeling off. No sweat trapped in walls that she had to air out.
Just fresh open air.
She hadn't felt watched once.
Maybe it was because she was already numb from the past week. From the audition. From the silence in that little room. From all the times she'd tried to talk and her voice turned out into either rambling or short responses.
Maybe she was just tired enough to stop caring.
She didn't want to test which one it was. There was no use thinking about it.
She straightened, rolled her shoulders once, and started walking again. Slow first. Warm-up. Ankles. Knees. Hips.
The park had little pockets of life tucked into it despite how worn it looked. A family spread out on a picnic mat with cheap plastic containers. A dog bolted in circles at the end of a leash, tongue out. Two birds were fighting over something on the ground—maybe a stick—pecking and hopping.
Stella passed them and kept her eyes forward.
The shoes felt good.
They weren't new anymore. The soles had scuffs now. The sides had dust rubbed into the stitching. She'd stopped saving them "for race day." It made no sense to keep them clean and untouched when she needed her feet to learn them. She needed to learn how they grabbed, how they pushed back, how they landed.
And they helped. A lot.
She came up on a pothole and hopped over it without thinking, landing light on her toes. Her ankle didn't buckle. Her knees didn't strain.
A staircase came next. Short, uneven, with chipped corners. Stella took it two steps at a time on the way down just because she could.
A couple people glanced over. One older guy's eyes widened.
Stella felt something small and stupid spark in her chest.
It was kind of fun every time she saw the reactions for doing that.
At the bottom, the path curved left. Stella slowed. Wide, then in. It wasn't a track, but turns were turns. If she practiced the habit, maybe it would stick when she needed it.
She took the curve smooth. Outside then in.
The path opened up into a long straightaway.
Stella looked ahead. Not many people. A clear line. The kind of empty stretch she never got at school.
She stood there for a second, breathing, then leaned forward.
"Okay."
She pushed hard.
Her feet slapped the concrete. Pebbles jumped. A little grit kicked up behind her shoe. Air hit her face cold and sharp, shoved into her nose and throat.
She ran.
Birds burst out of a bush to her right. Something small in the grass rustled and vanished. The world blurred at the edges in that good way where it felt like nothing existed except the line in front of her.
The vending machine at the end of the path got closer.
She reached the last few meters and tried to brake.
Her body shifted too late. Her foot planted awkward. The sole caught wrong on the uneven patch.
She went down.
Her palms scraped. Her knee hit. She rolled once, and ended up on her back staring at the sky.
She lay there, breathing hard, hair stuck to her cheek.
…Yeah. Okay.
That happened.
Stella sat up slowly and checked her hands. Red scrapes. Some dirt and a sting that would feel worse later. She stood, brushed herself off, and walked to the bench beside the vending machine.
She sat down and bent over her knee, peeling her pant leg up to look. A shallow scrape. Nothing deep. She could bandage it later.
The vending machine whirred beside her.
Coins clinked.
Stella didn't look up. She focused on her knee.
Then she heard a sound.
A long, miserable—
"Oooohhh…"
It definately wasn't the machine.
Stella's ears flicked.
Someone kicked the vending machine.
Then shook it.
Then kicked it again.
Stella lifted her head.
The girl at the machine had black hair. Two braids down the sides. Round glasses. Same face with nervous energy, she looked like she was always halfway between apologizing and bolting off.
Stella stared at her for a second.
Right. The glasses girl.
Hallway collision, the library.
The girl shook the machine again with both hands. The whole thing rattled. Stella expected the machine to lurch and kneel for how much the girl shook it.
Two cans dropped.
Clang. Clang.
The girl froze and looked at it. She didn't believe it worked.
Then she slowly bent down and pulled them out.
She turned.
Saw Stella sitting there.
Her shoulders jumped.
For a second she just stood there, holding both cans, eyes wide behind her glasses.
Then she walked over.
She sat on the bench but left a careful gap between them.
Her hand came out. She offered one of the cans to Stella, arm fully stretched.
"F-For you!"
Stella looked at the can.
Then at the girl's shaking arm.
Then back at the can.
The girl's face started turning red. Her eyes watered—for a second, Stella thought she might combust from holding the pose too long.
Stella realized, a little late, that she was supposed to take it.
Before the girl's arm fell off, Stella reached out with both hands and took the drink.
"…Thank you?"
The girl popped up instantly. She faced Stella, feet planted, fists clenched at her sides.
Then she shouted, loud enough that two people down the path looked over.
"Do your best!"
Stella blinked. "Huh?"
The girl's eyes squeezed shut. She shouted again, louder, like volume could fix her fear.
"D-Do your best! You can d-do it!"
Her arms shot up.
Stella's head went blank. Her mouth opened staring back like a dead fish.
The girl panicked and talked faster.
"S-So accept the drink and don't forget to d-drink and e-eat, okay! The drink is y-yours!"
She bowed so fast her braids swung.
Then she turned and bolted down the path.
Stella watched her go, still holding the cold can in her hands.
"…Okay," she said, mostly to herself.
She was… supposed to say something back, wasn't she?
"Yeah! You too!" Stella called, but the girl was already far enough away that it probably didn't matter.
Stella looked down at the can.
Cola.
Cold.
She cracked it open.
The moment the tab popped, foam shot straight into her face.
Stella froze.
Sticky fizz dripped down her cheek.
Oh right.
The vending machine had been shaken like it owed the girl money. Which technically, it did.
Stella stared at the can for a second, then licked her upper lip.
Sweet.
Behind her—
"Ouuuaaahhh!"
Stella turned her head.
Down the path, the same girl was standing there with her own cola geysering all over her shirt and hands.
Her glasses were soaked and fogged up.
Something in Stella's chest loosened. It came out before she could stop it.
"Puh— ha… hahaha—"
It made her eyes squeeze shut. Her shoulders shook. Her stomach hurt from it.
When Stella finally opened her eyes again, she saw the girl staring at her.
The girl's face was bright red. Completely red. Like a tomato.
She stood there for half a second, cola dripping from her chin.
She squeaked.
And sprinted away so fast Stella had to reel back at the speed.
Stella wiped her face with her towel, still smiling without meaning to.
"What a weird girl…"
She looked down at the can again.
"Do your best," she repeated.
Her chest felt lighter.
Stella took a careful sip this time, then drank more. Cold sugar and fizz.
She stood up.
The bench was beside a patch of flat concrete. Stella grabbed a fallen stick from the edge of the grass and dragged it across the ground.
One line. Then another.
A rough grid laid out.
She stared at it for a second. The shape wasn't perfect.
She stepped into the first square.
Footwork. Quick steps. In and out.
She started slow, then faster.
Her shoes slapped the ground. Her breath matched the rhythm.
This felt… better than the gym.
Maybe not "better," more like easier.
Better like she could actually keep doing it.
Stella glanced once down the path where the girl had run.
Then she looked back at the grid.
"Do my best," she muttered.
~**~
Stella sat on her floor with her wallet open. Coins and small bills. She lined them up, counted twice, counted again. Her pen scratched paper. Entry fee. Fare. Tape. Food. A cheap brush for her shoes—maybe. If she had extra. She didn't.
Still, she folded the documents clean. Stacked them.
~**~
Race day again. She finished last.
But the screen flashed the time and her eyes locked onto it.
It showed three seconds less.
Her lungs still burned. The crowd still didn't know her name.
But the number was less.
On the way home she looked down at her shoes. The white lining had a stain that didn't come off when she rubbed it with her thumb. The tread had little bits of turf jammed in.
She'd have to brush it out If she ever got one.
~**~
Another audition. Different building. Different hallway smell. And different studio.
They asked her to do a short piece with movement.
"Show us you can carry yourself."
Her arms went stiff. Her steps came half a moment late.
The person behind the table nodded. They were being polite.
"We see potential," they said, and Stella almost lifted her head.
Then—
"It's just not your style."
Not your vibe. Not what we need.
They smiled when they said it.
Stella smiled back because she didn't know what else to do.
Outside, the sun was too bright. She walked to the curb and stood there until the heat stopped feeling like it was pressing on her skin.
~**~
Back to the library.
This time she didn't touch the glossy "serious" books. She grabbed thinner ones. Basic social stuff. Basic conditioning. Posture. Breath. Warm-ups.
She still didn't get half of it.
But she started getting pieces.
She wrote little notes on scrap paper. Words she didn't know. Words she hated. Words that sounded like common sense until she tried doing them with her body and realized she'd been doing it wrong the entire time.
~**~
Back to the park.
Chalk grid on the pavement.
In-out. In-out. Quick feet.
She tripped. Ate the concrete. Palms scraped.
She sat there for two seconds, jaw tight.
Then she pushed herself up and stepped back into the square.
Again.
~**~
Race again.
This time she wasn't dead last.
She was barely behind last. Close enough that she could see it. Close enough that it made her angry in a new way.
~**~
Her room started to change.
It got more crowded.
Books borrowed stacked on the table. Her tablet propped between them. Videos paused mid-step. Notes tucked into pages. Tape wrappers. Towels that haven't fully dried. The clock always ticking.
Under the bathroom light her eyes looked wrong. Darker and heavier. Her skin under them didn't bounce back.
She didn't try to fix them. She didn't have time.
She had to do her best.
~**~
She passed an interview.
For once.
They put her in a mascot suit.
A big foam head. Hot inside. Sweat pooling at her collar. Her vision cut down to a narrow window. She stood outside a building handing out flyers with a forced posture and a voice that came out too quiet.
"Please come," she said.
Most people didn't take them. Some took one without looking. Some smiled at her, she looked cute and harmless.
When the shift ended her hands were cramped from gripping paper.
When she got home she still trained.
~**~
The footwork got cleaner.
Her feet stopped slapping so loud. Her turns got tighter. Her breathing wasn't as fast as before.
She caught herself smiling once when she nailed a sequence without tripping.
It didn't last long.
~**~
Second-to-last.
She saw it on the board and her throat tightened so hard she thought she'd throw up.
Second-to-last.
Not good. Not even close to good.
But not last.
The next race put her back at last again. By one second. Then two.
Like the world was reminding her where she belonged.
~**~
Things started slipping.
Books slid off the table when she reached too fast, pages fanning out across the ground.
She stepped back and her heel hit the edge of a tile she'd cracked from drills and it shifted under her weight.
At the flyer job, she lost her grip for half a second and a stack scattered across the sidewalk.
Paper everywhere. People stepping around it.
A staff member calling her name.
Stella knelt down and gathered them up with hands that couldn't stop shaking.
She told herself it was fine the same way she told herself everything.
~**~
The next morning she barely made it to school.
Her eyes didn't focus right. Her brain felt slow.
She sat at her desk with the next entry form open, pen hovering, and wrote her name like it was the only thing keeping her upright.
A shadow fell over her desk.
Stella looked up.
Braids. Round glasses. Big eyes that never held contact for long.
The girl stared at her for a second like she was trying to be brave.
"Um," she said. "Are you—"
Stella blinked once.
The girl's mouth opened, then closed.
"Never mind," she said too fast, voice breaking on the word.
She turned and left, looking back one more time.
Stella's eyes followed her for half a second.
Then she looked back down at the paper.
Her pen moved again.
She had to do it anyway.