Ballerina

Chapter Fifteen (Epilogue)

A Jake Kiszka AU

Physiotherapist!Jake x Original Female Character

A/N: Hi everyone! This is the final chapter of Iris and Jake’s story. Honestly, I never thought I'd be able to finish my very first chaptered fic, but here we are, finally. I'd like to thank everyone who enjoyed this little story. A big thank you goes also to those who supported me and encouraged me throughout the writing of this fic, you know who you are😉
I really hope you like this!

Word count: 1.4K

Warnings for this chapter:  angst, nerves, feelings.
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Paris, a year later.

Those mirrors along the walls were reflecting her every move and she kept seeing mistakes that didn't even exist.

Iris had been dancing and practicing for almost ten hours now. Her muscles burned but she didn't really care. She wanted everything to be absolutely perfect.

It was getting dark outside, signaling to her that it was almost time to go home. The next day was going to be her day. The most important one in years.

She practiced a few more moves and then packed her bags and walked the short distance separating the ballet school from her flat.

Her little rented flat, right next to her sister's, was tiny, in true parisian fashion, but it was wonderful. From her small balcony she could even see the Sacré-Cœur; its pearlescent white stones were shining even brighter with the full moon.

She tried to calm her nerves by admiring the beautiful basilica from afar, but it was useless. She was so nervous she couldn't stop her hands from shaking and her heart from hammering in her throat.

The next day was going to be a big step for her. It was the day in which she was going to dance again in front of a crowd after a year and a half.

And she couldn't stop thinking about all the things that could go wrong.

After tossing and turning for a while, she managed to finally turn off her brain and rest.

~

The next day, she woke up early. After a quick breakfast, she checked if she had everything she needed in her bags and left for the Opéra Garnier.

It didn't matter how many times she saw that theatre. Every time her eyes landed on its golden statues and white columns it was like the first. Little tingles travelled down her spine every time.

She showed her badge to the security at the entrace and reached her dressing room backstage.

She placed her bags on the floor, changed into her ballet shoes and started rehearsing again, trying to stop overthinking and fighting the urge to run away from there and never come back. It took her a while to finally silence the insufferable voice in her head that kept telling her that she was going to miserably fail but, eventually, she managed to do so, drowning that insecurity under the music of her choreography.

Before she knew it, her time was up.

Looking at the clock on the wall, she realized that her turn was quickly approaching.

The buzzing of her phone startled her.

She wiped her sweaty trembling hands on her leggings and read the text she had just received.

It was from her sister. She was telling her that the theater was packed and wishing her good luck using the French word “merde” like a true Parisian.

She smiled but her heart was threatening to jump out of her chest at any moment.

She finished getting ready and, when there were only 20 minutes left before her turn, she exited her dressing room.