I'm nineteen, a sophomore, supposed to be doing whatever, you know, college kids do on a Friday night—parties, hookups, whatever. Instead, I'm at the community center, waltzing with Mrs. Henderson, who’s like, eighty, maybe? Her bun is always perfect. My bros would absolutely LOSE it if they knew I spent my weekends learning the Foxtrot with a bunch of retirees instead of, like, getting wasted. Sometimes I catch my reflection in the polished wood floor, a blur of sequins and sensible shoes, and it's like I'm looking at two different people, one of them pretending really, REALLY hard to be the other. God, it's so… embarrassing. But then the music starts and I actually FEEL something, you know? Like, really feel it. And then Saturday morning I’m back in my dorm, trying to figure out how to explain the faint glitter on my hoodie.