Diya raised an eyebrow. Geez. I wasn’t trying to be cocky. I just didn’t feel like pulling my hair back.

Diya and I took our places at opposite ends of the stage. “We’ll do the combination twice so we can get a good look at both of you,” Ms. Langford said, pushing Play on the stereo.

And it finally hit me. Sure, it was a stupid little musical theater combination. But for the first time in eight months, I was going to dance. My heart skittered into my throat.

When the music started, something familiar took over. I executed all the steps correctly, but I let the music guide my timing. As Gene Kelly’s voice drew out the lyrics, I slowed down my arm movements, picking up speed only when the horns started again. My Charleston step was light, my battements whooshed against my ears, and I prepped for the pirouette with a delicate pas de bourrée into fourth position. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Diya do a double pirouette instead of a single. She finished a touch off the music, but I could see Ms. Langford nodding and smiling as we got back into place to do it again.

I felt my mouth curve up. If it was okay to change the choreography, so be it.

The second time, I made my movements even lighter, even airier. I turned the second battement into a développé layout, arching way back as I extended my leg up, toes pointing to the ceiling. At the end, right before the pirouette, my ballet teacher, Kira, popped into my head. White-blond hair, vibrant blue eyes encircled by wrinkles, like rays of the sun. She was watching me, pushing me to be better. So I did a triple pirouette.

Well, I tried to.

My speed was okay, but my right ankle—which had the screws holding it together—couldn’t take the pressure. Somehow, I forced my core to balance and keep up my rotation, but I could only do a weak double turn, and I couldn’t even finish that with the music.

I didn’t see anyone’s reaction as I walked offstage, but I heard a few scattered claps. Too many thoughts and feelings were competing for my attention: the quick but steady way my heart beat after a performance, the stomach thrill I got from good old-fashioned competition. Those felt satisfyingly familiar, almost like everything could be okay again. But I couldn’t ignore that wobble. The way it knocked me off the music. The way it made me clumsy. The way I’d really, truly never dance on pointe again.

I’d been so stupid to think that dancing in the musical would fill a fraction of the emptiness I’d been clawing around for eight months. Dancing would never be the same. I would never be the same. And nothing could fix it.