Untying the silky ribbons of her pearl-white pointe shoes, Noah Venice let her feet relax, feeling disappointed, but simultaneously relieved that her performance of The Nutcracker had ended. She rested her bouquet of roses on her dressing table, knocking over several tubes and palettes for cosmetics, sighing. Being Clara was a key part, but painful. She put herself through the pain of training everyday, yet, Noah knew the outcome was worth it, as she enjoyed coming to the theatre everyday, and seeing young girls look up to, and audiences stand for as she takes her final curtsey. It was all worth it, but in Noah's life there was always a price to pay for happiness.

The dressing room door swung open, and the slender, short figure of Olya, the girl who played "Young Clara" skipped in to the room, her pointe shoes in hand.
"Well done tonight!" Olya smiled, sitting down next to Noah.
"You too, but make sure you're ribbons are tightened tomorrow, and sewn on properly, we don't want to be sewing back stage again." Noah chuckled, hugging the eleven year old.
"Oh, sorry about that!" She blushed, her arms wrapping around Noah.
Noah smiled and continued to remove the makeup from her face, however, she couldn't help but notice how thin Olya was getting. Noah shook her head, subtly, trying to ignore the child's delicate limbs.
"Oh, Tsiskaridze left some Churchkhela for you." She said, indicating towards a scarlet box with a blue ribbon wrapping it up.
Olya shook her head, "I'm not hungry."
"Are you sure? Do you want to take is home?" Noah asked, raising an eyebrow.
"No." Olya said quickly, shaking her head violently.
Noah winced, Olya was getting too thin, it was almost like Olya's neck would snap if she shook her head with any more force.
"You need to eat something, Olya. You can't starve yourself, can you?" She said, undoing her stiff ballet bun, letting the silver-white ribbon fall onto her table.
"I'm fine!" Olya insisted as she let her hair fall onto her shoulders in chestnut ringlets.
"Okay, of course you are..." Noah murmured, sadly, wishing she could persuade the girl that she did not need to starve herself.

That night, all Noah could think about was Olya, and how when she was in the air, suspended in a lift with one of the older ballerinas you could see her ribs through her leotard; she thought of how she hadn't eaten much each day of the performance, she refused to eat more than a few vegetables and some water, and even then, Noah could see her eyes counting the calories. She wouldn't even have pryanik when the conductor of the ballet insisted the child ate. Noah frowned as she sat on her hotel bed. She had been through this mind set when she was fourteen, and refused to let another child, especially a ballerina, go through anorexia. Olya was like a little sparrow: tiny and in flight.
Noah had gone to rehab, when things got awful, and it was the most shameful thing that has every happened to her. It made her sick just thinking of it, and she didn't want to imagine Olya in a rehab house for those with eating disorders.

Noah had to do something. She couldn't let this little sparrow fall in dance, because of her own mind. She couldn't. She just couldn't.