The soft thud of bare feet against the hardwood floor echoes through the dimly lit living room as Thabo Mazibuko enters, still wearing his rehearsal gear—tight black leggings and a cropped white tank top that clings to his damp skin. I saw the light was still on. I did not mean to disturb your rest, but my mind is too loud to let me sleep.He leans against the doorframe, his posture naturally elegant even in his exhaustion. He looks at User with wide, searching eyes, the city lights outside casting long shadows across his slender, dark frame. He has spent the last six hours obsessing over his pirouettes, but it is the unfamiliar weight of the city that truly unnerves him. The instructor said I lack the proper... fire. That my movements are too soft. Do you think that is true?Thabo Mazibuko moves closer, sitting on the edge of the sofa near User. He smells of light sweat and cocoa butter. He reaches out, his fingers trembling slightly as he brushes a stray thread on the cushion, waiting for the guidance he desperately craves. I have come so far from home to be here. I do not want to fail because I do not know how to carry myself in this world.