May, 2016.

I was finally embracing my new fate; my new purpose. Teaching younger minds, and maybe shaping them into future professional dancers that could actually survive school and make a living out of it.

I had finally accepted that the stage was not in the cards for me, and that maybe never was. I had already mourned that life I used to have, those dreams I used to hold and that destiny I thought was mine.

I'm not ready for this. And truth be told, I don't think I'll ever be. And it is not just because my mind is all kinds of uncertain about it. There is also the fact that I don't think my body is up to the challenge.

Yes, I have been going to my therapy sessions, although I may have skipped a few lately, and my doctors keep telling me that I am as recovered as I can be; but that doesn't mean that I am in perfect shape.

And that is precisely what I have to be if I even want to dare having those old dreams again.

Like I said, I am nowhere near ready for this. So why am I walking out of the arrivals gate and towards that ridiculous sign with my name on it? I have no fucking idea.

I had a long conversation with my parents the second I got the news. They told me that they would support me in whatever decision I make about this, but they insisted that I should consider the situation as carefully and thoroughly as it deserves.

So I guess that's what I'm doing. Considering things. Testing the waters with my toes first, and see whether I'm capable, or willing, to dive in or not.

"There you are, finally!" He pulls me into a smothering hug before I even get the chance to take in a decent breath, and I groan.

"I'm dying here, Jazz." I say, squeezing his arms so he would stop squeezing me.

He apologizes and lets me go, keeping me at arms length by the shoulders, and flashing me a wide, cheerful smile.

"I'm so happy you're back!" He beams, and I can't fight the grin breaking through my face.

But it doesn't last very long. Because I know that the moment I tell him that I am having serious doubts about going back to school, his mood will change and I will be dragged into a lecture that, no matter how much I don't want to hear, he'll make sure that I do.

"It's so good to see you." I divert, picking up the bag I dropped to the floor when he crushed me. "Now lets get out of here."

He suggests we have lunch on that small burger place we used to go to after yet another exhausting, soul, body and dreams crushing class, but I tell him that I would rather go straight to the apartment where I can shower off the flight first, and he nods.

As soon as we step out of the airport and find a taxi, I realize how much I actually missed this city. The noises, the smells, the packed streets. Sure, I have all of those things in London, but here, and I don't know exactly why, it's just different. Is as if New York's pace is more suiting; more like me.

That's not good, though. That is another thing to add to the pro list, tilting the balance towards the option of staying, towards the option of going back to school and resume my previous life.

The option that, for some reason I have yet to discover, scares the life right out of me.

The ride stretches for a good hour because of the traffic, and most of that time I just spend it looking blindly through the window, letting the spring air fan on my face.

"What's on you mind?" Jasper elbows me tenderly, and I turn my head to him, blinking away all the thoughts racing through my mind.

What's on my mind, he asks? It would be easier to make a list of what is not, actually.

"I don't know, really." I shrug, letting out a sigh of exhaustion. "I guess I'm still processing all of this."

At least that is not a lie.

The car comes to a halt, and I roll my eyes in relief, sliding out of the backseat. Jasper is kind enough to take care of the fare and the tip, and I just stare at my old building towering over me.

Great. The balance keeps tilting. And the water begins to feel warmer.

But as soon as he opens the door and I walk into the apartment, the first and only thought I have is 'RUN'.

I wish I was exaggerating about what I'm seeing right now, but to say that this place is where hope and dreams and health come to die, would be pretty much the understatement of, at least, this decade.

"Oh, my god!" I make my way through the living room, avoiding the dirty clothes scattered all over, and my nose wrinkles at this weird smell oozing from whatever it is rotting on the dirty dishes piled upon the coffee table. "This is disgusting, Jasper."

With my thumb and index finger I clamp a dirty sock that he probably threw carelessly and landed on the TV, and I just stare at him with obvious judgment on my eyes.

He chuckles, not at all embarrassed as he should be, and he simply waves me off.

"What?" He slaps away the filthy peace of clothing I just threw at him half a second before it hits his face, and lets himself fall on the equally disgusting couch."I warned you this would happen if you left me on my own devices, didn't I?"

I look around in shock, and since I don't even want to see what kind of a mess the bathroom must be, I let go of the idea of taking that shower.

"We have to clean this up." I tell him, and I bravely step into the kitchen to find the cleaning products that, of course, remain untouched since the last time I've been here. "I can't believe you've been living like this, Jazz."

He tells me that his parents send a cleaning lady a few times a month, but he has been canceling on her for several weeks now because he couldn't find the time to let her in.

Something about dating a guy he met at a coffee place that owns a pretty cool apartment on the Upper West Side, where he spends most of his time.

I knew a little about that, but I never thought it was going so steady, and I feel a little guilty for not being on the loop on my best friend's life like I should be.

I ask him to tell me everything as I start filling countless trash bags with garbage and other things that have actual life growing in them, and by the time he finishes his very detailed story, I am done with the living room.

*****

The bathroom was surprisingly clean; considering the low standards I was working with, that is.

So, after a little scrubbing and whatnot, I'm finally getting that shower I so desperately needed.

Under the hot stream of water, as it rolls down my body and relaxes every sore, tired muscle, my mind starts to wake up from the numbing distraction I managed to engulf it in for so many hours until now.

It wasn't just about cleaning. It was about shutting up my thoughts and keeping them from pulling me apart in such opposite directions.

But I knew it was putting a bandaid on a gunshot wound. It was covering the sun with my thumb. It was temporary and insufficient.