I peeled off my pointe shoe with trembling hands, biting my lip to keep from crying out as the pain flared again. My right foot was already swelling along the outside, the skin slightly red and tender to the touch.

"Great," I muttered, frustration bubbling up in my chest.

I sat on the floor for a minute, tears prickling at the corners of my eyes as I tried to collect myself. The pain wasn't unbearable, but it was bad enough to make my stomach sink. I knew what sprains felt like—I'd rolled my ankle once as a kid—but I'd never felt this exact kind of sharp, concentrated pain before.

With no other choice, I carefully pulled my warm-up sweater back on and stood up, putting just enough pressure on my foot to test it.

A surge of pain shot through me.

"Ahh," I gasped, clutching the barre for support as I balanced on my good foot.

Walking was going to be hell, but I had to get to the infirmary.

The hallway outside the studio felt impossibly long as I hobbled toward the building's entrance. Each step sent a dull ache pulsing up my leg, and I had to bite my cheek to keep the tears at bay. My bag hung heavily on my shoulder, adding to the discomfort as I tried to stay upright.

The stress piled on top of me like bricks. Not only was I terrified of what this would mean for The Nutcracker, but Costa Rica loomed in the back of my mind like an immovable storm cloud. Ten days of hiking, ziplining, walking tours—how was I supposed to do any of that if I could barely stand?

And Mrs. Lawson. My stomach churned as I imagined her reaction when I told her I'd injured myself. She was strict but fair, always reminding us to take care of our bodies because "injury is a dancer's biggest setback."

What if she thought I wasn't taking things seriously? What if she replaced me in the show?

"Please, no," I whispered under my breath as I reached the infirmary doors.

The infirmary was quiet when I entered, save for the faint hum of fluorescent lights overhead. A nurse looked up from her desk as I limped inside, her brow furrowing immediately.

"Amber? What happened?" she asked, standing quickly to help me toward the nearest bed.

"I... rolled my ankle," I said softly, wincing as I lowered myself onto the bed. "During practice."

She nodded sympathetically, kneeling in front of me as she examined my foot. I hissed when her fingers prodded the tender area on the outside of my ankle.

"Okay, let's get this elevated," she said gently, grabbing a pillow to prop up my leg. "I'm going to get you some ice and take a closer look, but it looks like a sprain."

As she disappeared into the back, I sat there, staring up at the ceiling while tears burned in my eyes. I blinked furiously, trying to stop them from falling. A sprain. That was enough to make me panic.

The nurse returned with an ice pack, a bandage, and a large, black medical boot in her arms. My heart dropped.

"A boot?" I asked, horrified.

She nodded. "This will help stabilize your foot while it heals. It's better than crutches—you can walk carefully without putting too much weight on the injured area. And you'll need at least two weeks of rest."

"Two weeks?" I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper.

She sat back on her heels, her gaze kind but firm. "You won't be able to dance, Amber. No jumps, no weight-bearing activity. You'll need to skip any intense activities during your trip, too—no ziplining, no hiking. You can still go, but you'll have to take it easy."

The tears I'd been holding back broke free, slipping down my cheeks as I tried to process her words.

No dancing for two weeks.

No activities on the trip.

Mrs. Lawson.

I covered my face with my hands, my shoulders trembling. "This can't be happening."

"I know it's hard," the nurse said gently, resting a hand on my shoulder. "But you'll heal faster if you listen to me. You're a strong dancer, Amber—you'll come back from this."

I nodded shakily, but her words didn't make me feel any better.

The walk back to the infirmary felt longer than the first time, the boot on my injured foot awkward and heavy. Every step sent a dull ache up my leg, but the real pain was the sinking dread in my stomach. I couldn't stop picturing Mrs. Lawson's face when I told her.

Her voice echoed in my mind: "Injury is a dancer's biggest setback. Always listen to your body."

Well, I hadn't. I'd pushed too hard, ignored the signs, and now I was paying for it.

The ballet studio was quieter now, most of the dancers having finished their classes. I hobbled through the hallway, the echo of my uneven steps against the polished wood filling the space. Outside Mrs. Lawson's office, I hesitated, taking a shaky breath before knocking gently.

"Come in."

I pushed the door open to find Mrs. Lawson sitting at her desk, glasses perched on her nose as she shuffled through paperwork. She looked up when she saw me, her expression softening at the sight of my boot.

"Amber," she said, standing immediately. "What happened?"

I swallowed hard, clutching the strap of my bag like it could ground me. "I... rolled my ankle during practice," I admitted, my voice tight. "The infirmary said it's a sprain. Two weeks of rest, no dancing."

Her brows furrowed as she walked over to me, her sharp eyes scanning my injured foot. "Two weeks?" she repeated, her tone carefully neutral.

"Yes," I whispered, blinking back the tears that threatened to spill. "I—I'm sorry. I pushed too hard."

Mrs. Lawson let out a slow breath, crossing her arms as she studied me. "Amber," she said finally, her voice softer than I expected, "I know how hard you've been working. But part of being a dancer is knowing your limits. Injuries happen—it's how you come back from them that matters."

I nodded quickly, my throat burning. "I'll do everything I can to recover quickly. I promise."

"You'll heal," she said firmly, placing a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "But no pushing yourself. I mean it. When you come back, I'll ease you back into rehearsals. The Sugar Plum Fairy is a demanding role—you need to be at your best."

The mention of my role made my chest ache. I nodded again, the tears welling up as I bit the inside of my cheek. "Thank you," I managed to whisper.

"Go home," she said gently, stepping back. "Rest, ice your ankle, and don't overthink this. You're not losing your spot in the show, Amber, but I need you to trust the process."

The knot in my chest loosened just a fraction. I turned to leave, offering a small "Thank you, Mrs. Lawson," before closing the door behind me.

As soon as I was back in the hallway, the tears fell freely. Relief and frustration swirled together, making it impossible to tell where one emotion ended and the other began.

By the time I got back to my dorm, I felt like I'd been run over. My foot ached, my head pounded, and all I wanted to do was crawl under my blankets and disappear.

Instead, I pulled out my phone and pressed the contact labeled Maman.

The line rang a few times before my mom's warm, familiar voice answered. "Allô, ma chérie! Ça va?"

Hearing her voice almost broke me completely. I sniffed hard, trying to keep my composure. "Salut, maman."

Her tone immediately shifted. "Amber, qu'est-ce qu'il y a? Tu pleures?" (Amber, what's wrong? Are you crying?)

I took a shaky breath, pressing the back of my hand against my eyes. "Je... je me suis blessée au pied." (I... I hurt my foot.)

There was a beat of silence, and then, "Oh, mon Dieu. Comment?" (Oh, my God. How?)

"Pendant la pratique," I admitted, my voice small. "C'est une entorse, je ne peux pas danser pendant deux semaines." (During practice. It's a sprain, I can't dance for two weeks.)

Her concerned sigh carried through the line. "Oh ma chérie. Tu as vu un médecin?" (My poor girl. Did you see a doctor?)

"Oui, l'infirmerie m'a donné une botte pour mon pied." (Yes, the infirmary gave me a boot for my foot.)

"Ma chérie." (Oh, dear.) Her voice softened, the warmth I needed flooding through the phone. "Tu es frustrée, n'est-ce pas?" (You're frustrated, aren't you?)

"Oui," I whispered, biting my lip as tears threatened again. "Je ne pourrai pas m'entraîner pour le spectacle, et... et je pars pour le Costa Rica lundi." (Yes. I won't be able to train for the show, and... and I'm leaving for Costa Rica on Monday.)

"Oh, Amber." My mom's voice was full of understanding, like only a mother's could be. "Je sais que c'est difficile. Mais tu es forte, ma chérie. Tu vas guérir rapidement." (I know it's hard. But you're strong, my dear. You'll heal quickly.)

"Et les activités là-bas?" I asked, my voice breaking slightly. "Je ne pourrai rien faire." (And the activities there? I won't be able to do anything.)

"Ce n'est pas la fin du monde," she said softly. "Même si tu ne peux pas tout faire, tu pourras en profiter. Et puis, tu te reposeras pour revenir encore plus forte." (It's not the end of the world. Even if you can't do everything, you'll still enjoy it. And you'll rest to come back even stronger.)

Her words were comforting, but my chest still felt heavy. "J'ai peur de décevoir tout le monde, maman." (I'm afraid of disappointing everyone, Mom.)

"Tu n'as déçu personne," she said firmly. "Tu as travaillé dur, et parfois, le corps a besoin de repos. Tu dois être douce avec toi-même." (You haven't disappointed anyone. You worked hard, and sometimes the body needs rest. You have to be kind to yourself.)

I nodded, even though she couldn't see me. "Merci, maman."

"De rien, mon amour. Repose-toi. Je t'aime." (You're welcome, my love. Rest. I love you.)

"Je t'aime aussi," I whispered before hanging up the call.

I sat on my bed, the phone still clutched in my hand, as my mom's words echoed in my head. Be kind to myself. My eyes drifted to the boot on my foot, heavy and awkward, a constant reminder of what I couldn't do.

I leaned back against my pillows, pulling my blanket up to my chest. The tears had stopped, but the frustration still lingered. I knew my mom was right. I knew Mrs. Lawson was right. But it didn't make the disappointment any easier to swallow.

The next two weeks were going to test me in ways I wasn't ready for. I just hoped I was strong enough to face them.

The door to the dorm burst open with an energy only Isabella could bring. I heard the telltale shuffle of her sneakers and the faint rustle of shopping bags, her voice carrying through the room before I even saw her.

"Amber! You are not going to believe the cute decorations I found for your birthday!" she practically sang, her excitement radiating like a ball of sunshine. "I'm talking banners, sparkles—oh, and I found the cutest little cake topper that says Bonne Fête! I'm a genius."

I didn't respond.

From where I sat—propped against my pillows, a blanket draped over me—I felt too drained to do anything but stare at the wall, lost in my thoughts. The boot on my injured foot sat heavily on the bed, a glaring reminder of everything I couldn't do.

Isabella stopped short when she rounded the corner into the room. The shopping bags slipped slightly from her hands as her eyes darted to the boot, then to me, curled up and clearly not okay. Her smile faltered instantly.

"Oh my God," she whispered, setting her bags down gently. "Amber... what happened?"

I shrugged one shoulder, trying to play it off like it wasn't that big of a deal. "It's nothing. Just a sprain."

Isabella's brow furrowed, and she crossed the room in two strides, dropping onto the bed next to me. "That's not nothing, Amber. Why do you have a boot?!"

"Because I rolled my ankle," I admitted quietly, avoiding her gaze. "Sprain. Two weeks of rest, no dancing."

The words sounded flat, lifeless, even though I'd said them so many times in my head already.

Isabella's mouth fell open, her blue eyes scanning me like she was searching for a joke somewhere in this very unfunny situation. "Two weeks?" she echoed. "Two weeks of no dancing? That's—"

"I know," I cut in, my voice shaky as I blinked back the tears that threatened again. "I know, Izzy."

Her face softened immediately, the teasing sparkle in her eyes replaced by concern. She gently nudged my leg—careful not to touch the boot—and sat cross-legged on the bed.

"Amber, I'm so sorry," she said softly, like she was afraid to push me too far.

I swallowed hard, my hands gripping the edge of my blanket. "It's not just the show. It's everything. The trip to Costa Rica—no ziplining, no hiking, no anything. I'm going to be stuck sitting out while everyone else has fun. And now I can't even practice before we leave."

Isabella winced like the words physically hurt her. "Oh no..."

"Yeah." I looked away, the lump in my throat making it hard to keep talking. "And Mrs. Lawson already knows. She said she wouldn't replace me, but..."

"You're scared she'll change her mind," Isabella finished, understanding instantly.

I nodded, my chest tight.

For a long moment, Isabella didn't say anything. Then she sighed dramatically and flopped back on the bed, staring at the ceiling like she was trying to figure out how to fix everything. "Okay. First of all, you are still the Sugar Plum Fairy, and no one is taking that away from you. Two weeks is nothing. You'll rest, and you'll come back even better. That's what you always do, Amber."

I managed a small, watery smile.

"Second," she continued, sitting up with renewed determination, "your birthday is still happening. Boot or no boot, I refuse to let your last weekend before Costa Rica be miserable. I'll carry you around on my back like a knight in shining armor if I have to."

I snorted at the mental image. "You'd drop me in two seconds."

"I would not!" she protested, grinning. "Well, maybe three. But the point is, you're still having fun this weekend, even if I have to plan the entire thing around you sitting in a chair like a queen."

Her words eased some of the tension in my chest. Isabella always had a way of making even the worst situations feel a little less awful.

As if on cue, she clapped her hands together. "Now, details! How did this happen? Did you trip? Were you attacked by rogue pointe shoes? Did Bryan make you mad again and you stomped too hard?"

That earned a reluctant laugh from me. "No. I was practicing the jumps, and I landed wrong. It's my fault for pushing too hard."

Isabella shook her head, her voice full of mock scolding. "Amber, you're amazing, but you're also a perfectionist. You need to give yourself a break. I mean, look at you. You're the only person I know who sprains an ankle and still looks cute while sulking in bed."

"I do not look cute," I muttered, pulling the blanket higher.

"You do," she insisted, grinning. "But don't worry, I'll make you look extra cute on Friday. If you're not dancing, you're at least going to be the birthday girl everyone stares at because she's stunning."

I rolled my eyes, but I couldn't stop the small smile tugging at my lips.

Isabella sat up suddenly, like a light bulb had gone off in her head. "You know what you need?"

"What?" I asked cautiously.

"A distraction!" she announced triumphantly. "Let's order pizza, binge-watch something ridiculous, and forget about everything for tonight. You're not going to fix your foot in one day, so we might as well give your brain a break too."

I hesitated, but the way she looked at me—so determined to lift my mood—made it hard to say no.

"Fine," I said with a sigh. "But only if you let me pick the movie."

"Done." Isabella grinned, springing off the bed and grabbing her phone. "You're getting the VIP treatment tonight, my injured ballerina. And don't worry—come Friday, we're celebrating you in style. Boot and all."

Her words settled something inside me, just enough to make me feel a little lighter. I still had the boot. I still had two weeks of no dancing. But maybe, just maybe, things didn't have to feel so terrible.

And I knew one thing for sure—no matter how bad things got, Isabella would never let me stay miserable for long.