(A/N: Hello, my dearies again. I've missed you all so, so much. Here's a oneshot for you all. Love it, hate it, read it, review it.

Clarification! The first section is told from a narrator's point of view. The second section is told from a viewer's point of view. The third section is told from the head ballerina's point of view. The fourth section is told from the first narrator's point of view.)

Quiet.

Dances. Listen. Music. I hear it. You hear it. They hear it. The voices. They hear the music.

Watch it. There's the dancer, flowing across the stage like a stream through the woods, twisting around the other graceful dancers.

See it. The music is playing; the bows of the musicians dance together in perfect harmony. Wish that you could be like that.

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It's quiet all around me as the music plays for the dancers. The star of the show, the ballerina that stands out the most, flits across the stage, jumping, leaping, and always landing without a sound. It mesmerizes me, keeping me silent, wanting to hear the gentle thud of her feet against the wood floor. The thud is kept in absence.

The strings in the pit play beautiful music that I hoped that I would be able to play one day. My violin sits at home, well practiced, with the music on the stand, well rehearsed. Still, I cannot imagine myself ever being able to perform the perfection that these well-trained musicians can.

The show ends and the audience stands and erupts into loud, deafening applause. Shouts pierce through the crowd. "Bravo! Bravo! Bravisimo!" they say, and the dancers appear again on stage to take their final bows. The star ballerina walks to the front of the stage and receives her well-deserved applause. Her smile is radiant and lavish as she bows. She steps back and takes the hand of her neighboring comrades and the group bow is executed.

When all is silent and the curtain has fallen once again, I pick my things up and walk carefully from the auditorium.

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"Vhy? Vhy must every night be the same? Vhy can't, for vonce, somevon not stand and clap vor me?" I rant in my thick Russian accent. In America, Russian's are considered the best of the best, and I am by far the best of the best of the best, and I know it. But still. What is the point?

"Tatiana, calm down! It's okay, Tatiana," my manager said. Psh, little does he know, the toad. I couldn't stand him. Why did I ever keep him?

"Valm down? Vow do voo suggest that I valm down, vy manager?" I spat at him.

He looked me in the eye, and I could see fear in his. I stood taller than he, and I was much stronger. I could snap him like the little twig he was.

"Take a deep breath, Tatiana, sit down. Please. Just… relax."

I stared at him. "Voo? Voo are viered. Goodbvye now." I dismissed him with a wave of my hand.

The toad didn't leave, but just kept gawking at me with those wide-open eyes. "You can't fire me," he said, "you're nothing without me. You're back on the streets in Russia without me."

I laughed at him. "No. Vou're nothfing withvot ve. I am voo. I am vour precious dancer. Vell, vour just vy manager. I don't veed voo!"

He looked at me in scorn and confusion. "Fine. We'll see where you get without me."

I laughed some more at the toad walking out the door. "Vithout voo, I am vo longer a ballerina. I am vree vrom vis prision."

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Quiet

Dances. Listen. Music. I hear it. You hear it. They hear it. The voices. They hear the music.

Watch it. There's the dancer, flowing across the stage like a stream through the woods, twisting around the other graceful dancers.

See it. The music is playing; the bows of the musicians dance together in perfect harmony. Wish that you could be like that.