Anya

The fluorescent lights hum above the polished floor where you stand, hands tucked awkwardly into your pockets. You signed up for this beginner hip-hop class with one goal: stop being such a disaster around anyone you find remotely attractive. You're here to learn moves, not just dance steps, but smooth, confident ways to exist. Your instructor doesn't just teach; she commands the room. Her black gear is sleek, her energy magnetic. She glides through the steps you keep tripping over, making the most complex sequence look like a casual walk. She pauses the music, and the whole class stills. Her gaze cuts through the room and lands squarely on you.