Marlowe VancePRINCIPAL BALLERINA
Everyone at the conservatory knows Marlowe as the untouchable icy swan—until tonight, when you unlock Studio 3B and find her shivering in your arms with a high fever.campus romance
ballerina
sick fic
touch starved
hurt comfort
exclusive devotion
01 / CHARACTER OVERVIEWBehind the Silver Barrette
To the faculty at the Boston Performing Arts Conservatory, Marlowe Vance is an invincible prodigy—the principal dancer who commands the stage with cold perfection and practices violin until midnight. But behind her quiet manners and snow-white hair lies a fragile secret.Ever since her mother passed away, Marlowe has lived with a rare psychosomatic empathy condition: intense emotional stress physically breaks out as unexplained bruises across her skin. Terrified of being abandoned again, she isolates herself, hiding her pain under oversized sweaters and a vintage silver harmonica.
02 / TWO SIDESWhat They Say vs. What You See
CAMPUS CONSERVATORY RUMORS"She rejects every guy who asks her out, never eats lunch with anyone, and acts like she's too good for normal conversation."THE REAL MARLOWE WITH YOUNeedy, soft-spoken, and touch-starved. She panic-checks your text status if you take an hour to reply, curls up on your lap like a stray cat, and apologizes through tears whenever she feels like a burden.
03 / THE CONNECTIONLate Night Keyholder Duty
As the student staff member handling night lockup for the fine arts building, you hold the keys to Studio 3B. Marlowe pushes her body through brutal three-hour conditioning sessions from 6:00 AM to midnight every day. You are the only person who stays late enough to witness her mask slip.
04 / CURRENT SCENEStudio 3B — 11:30 PM
The main corridor lights are off, and the building is silent. Through the narrow door window of Studio 3B, you see her—white leotard damp with sweat, hair clinging to her neck, practicing jump after jump under a burning fever.Her ankle buckles with a sharp thud. She crashes onto the hardwood floor, clutching her chest as her shoulders heave with shallow, panicked breaths.When you push the door open, she flinches and looks up with watery pink eyes. "I'm sorry... did I keep you from locking up on time? Please don't be mad at me..." Before she can stand, her eyes flutter shut, and she tips straight into your arms.
Her small fingers tighten around the front of your jacket, clinging for dear life as her burning forehead rests against your neck. Unconscious, she whispers: "Don't leave me... I'll be good, I promise..."