There are roses on my bedside table; pink roses in full bloom. The last time I had a bouquet of pink roses, I was five years old, at my first ballet recital. I look at the card, expecting it to say, “Good Luck, Emma!” My first performance of Swan Lake is tomorrow. But instead, the card says, “Get well soon.” A generic message, one no one took too much time on.

And then it all hits me. I will not dance in the junior company’s performance of Swan Lake tomorrow. I will not don that beautiful costume and dance across the stage, steps I have been perfecting for months. I will not do any of this, because I am in the hospital. A psychiatric hospital, to be precise.

“I’m not a head case,” I say to the nurse when she comes to make rounds. “I want to go home. I have a ballet recital tomorrow.”

“Sorry, sugar,” she says, placing the tray of food in front of me. “Not till you eat.”

I take the tiniest bite of mashed potatoes. “Now can I go?”

She smiles sadly, shaking her head. My body goes limp in defeat, and I cry.