Atlantis

“I thought I’d find you here.”

His words echoed in the empty studio, bouncing off the barred walls until they reached where I stood with my knees bent, exasperated. I was pretty sure the gel I’d put in my hair was far gone as it mixed with my sweat. However, I’d promised myself, and Jasmine, that I would finally get this stupid petit allegro combination right; especially considering how determined the other dancers were to poke fun at me any chance they got. I’m sure most of them assumed I’d drop the class by now—but I hadn’t. 

And maybe a part of the reason was him.

“Really?” I retorted. “What gave you that impression, Chandler? The first five times I fell over in class today?”

Then, there it was. The smile I had memorized since our first day of school together. It was toothy, but it was remarkable, always reaching up to his bright blue eyes. It never failed to bring a smile to my face. It bothered me how effortlessly he could do that.

“No, only the second—” he said with a chuckle.

“Figures. You were watching.” I rolled my eyes and stopped what I was doing. He was coming closer.

“How could I not?” 

Only a few metres to my left, he had taken it upon himself to be as close as I would allow. He knew even then that I needed space for myself, and he always respected that. Letting out a sigh, I tried to stand up straight—taller to match his presence, but let’s be honest, I would always be shorter than him.

Chandler was always ahead of me. 

It didn’t take long for me to become aware of the fact that he was watching me. Observing my movements. How I let out each breath. I felt like an exhibit… one he grew fond of. It would be easy to name the occasions when I’d found his eyes trained on me like this in class, and it irked me how he could send shivers down my spine with just one glance. 

“Why did you come here, Chandler? Don’t you have some shopping trip to make with your ‘gals’?” I muttered, beginning to turn away. He stopped me. 

With his hand on my shoulder, the air in my lungs immediately vanished. If he was a magician, I’d probably blame it on one of his tricks, but this wasn’t one. This was real. Chandler knew what he was doing, and his eyes, soaring like comets in space, were full of a certainty I could only ever dream of.

I swallowed the lump in my throat and went to brush off his hand. I had somewhere to go. Places to be. Anywhere. Anywhere else, really. And yet I stayed.

“Oliver, why did you take ballet?”

The lump returned, and it grew bigger. 

“What does it matter to you—”

“I’m only curious,” Chandler began, “because I remember you’d dance along the boardwalk in the summers. You were silly like that. Twirling and twirling. Your entire world was spinning.” It was now, too.

“But you stopped spinning. You planted your feet so firmly in the earth, and you built these walls around you. I want to know…” he took another step closer to me, and my breath hitched again, “what changed?”

“I don’t—I don’t have time for this,” I mumbled, backing away, only to be jabbed in the side by the corner of the studio’s piano. “Shit.”

Suddenly, his eyes were shining like sapphires. “Then, let’s make some. We can make it quick.”

Rubbing my aching side, I wasn’t focused on the pain at all. How could I when he was in the room? He always managed to be the center of attention everywhere he went. The centre of my attention at least. This wasn’t only to say he was flamboyant in how he dressed, as typical of a gay guy as he was, but his personality managed to paint any and every room with colour. He was, above all else, a light in a world that needed it desperately.

I watched him waltz over to the piano bench. Before I could protest against whatever he planned on doing, he shushed me and patted the spot next to him. My hazel eyes studied it carefully. Then, I looked back at him as he gave me the most inviting smile. I couldn’t resist, so I humoured him. I sat next to him, already fidgeting nervously with the fabric of my black leotard.

“Wonderful,” he said, taking this as my surrender.

Chandler wasted no more time afterwards. His fingers grazed over the keys of the piano for a moment, recalling the music in his mind before he played: a dainty but upbeat melody, Petit Allegro. The song that's been running through my head all week. And he knew it. Hell, he saw it earlier as I tried to practice on my own.

I watched his fingers swiftly shift from note to note. Already, there was a smile creeping its way onto my face. He always looked so alive when he was playing the piano. It was as if his fingers were made to do this. Sometimes I wondered if when he played, his hands simply became one with the keys. Then, he paused.

“Well, are you just going to sit there?” he said, and I stared at him, confused. “Go! Dance! Danse, mon oisillon!”

I’d learned not to question it when Chandler slipped into French, even when he called me something as silly as a ‘little bird’—I also couldn’t help but laugh at it every time. Promptly, I jumped up from my seat and stepped in front of the piano. He nodded, smiling proudly back at me. He started again.

That’s when my legs took on a life of their own. I danced the routine we’d been working so hard on; the same one I’d previously let drown me in frustration and disappointment on multiple occasions, all because I was unable to successfully make the jumps. Laughter from my classmates used to fuel me, encouraging me to persevere through the technique. I’d wanted to prove something to them maybe, but this… this was different. It was my fourth week there. I should have been able to do this. I had to. 

“Magique!” Chandler laughed, continuing to play. 

Although I was unsure at first, it didn’t take me long to realize—I was doing it. My lungs were filled with air again and a warmth overwhelmed me. Taking another deep breath, I made another small jump with confidence. That was better. Then again. Even better! Again. I was doing it! Excitement had taken ahold of me, and there was no containing it. I placed my feet in their proper positions, propelled myself in a whirlwind, and began to spin. With the music playing in the background, it was as if I was floating and nothing could touch me. I felt as free as a bird.

Somewhere between my realization, excitement, and moment of euphoria, he must have stopped playing and made his way over to me. I was still spinning, trying to maintain my balance, but when I stopped… there he was. 

There I was. Staring right back at him, neither of us said anything. His hands were on each of my shoulders, steadying me after such a spin cycle. I wonder if he could tell I was holding my breath. His eyes were shining again. My heart was racing.

“So you do still know how to spin—” I stopped him mid-sentence.

My lips had found their way onto his as my hands held his face in my hands. I suppose they were always meant to be there. I don’t know if I believe in fate or soulmates, but I remained open to the idea after this instance. 

Our exchange was passionate yet cautious. Now, if you can recall the way you felt when you first tried something you loved, like when you made your first drawing and discovered a love of creating, or when you first sang your heart out to the car radio, connecting with how simple it was to attach yourself to the sounds. Well, I discovered I loved the taste of Chandler’s lips on mine. I discovered, at that very moment, that kissing him had become one of my favourite things. Without a single doubt.

It still is. There is no memory more distinct than the moments we spent together in that studio. His lips were warm and welcoming. He was gentle with me. And despite it having been five years since my sophomore year, where I went spiralling with shame and sin and him, I still cherish it to this day. I only wish I’d appreciated it more back then.

At least I have the memory.

Once our mouths parted, we looked at each other. I examined the way his lips trembled, hoping for more. He examined the way my eyes widened with surprise, and for once, certainty. I was certain I had never experienced anything more right, and I was certain I would never experience anything comparable to it. Mostly, I was in shock at my actions. Sure, a part of me had always known, but I’d suppressed it for so long I’d forgotten it was there at all. I guess he reminded me. And if I were to pinpoint where the spiral began, it would be there.

“I have to go,” I bluntly said, stumbling backwards before I could catch myself.

“Wait, Oliver…” Chandler’s sliver of hope vanished. In seconds, I was gone.

I wished the possibility of him—of us, away. I told myself it was too soon. It was too crazy. Impossible, actually. Hopeless. There was no chance for this to work, I recited in my head. As I ran back home, I felt my stomach churning. Tears were threatening to come, but I didn’t let them. I couldn’t. I held them in as I always had. I caged them so deep inside until I didn’t recognize those feelings. What were they?

What was that god awful stench of dancing for hours in a studio full of people, only to notice one with perfect brown hair and a charming smile?

What was that warm calming blue that splashed the sky and my dreams with could-be comfort?

What was that sound of vowels and consonants in a French accent, forming in my mind each night as I wondered when I would finally release this little bird..?

It was a sea of promise I’d turned my back on. For years, I told myself it meant nothing. A time of stupidity and regret at best. Now, I regret to inform you, and myself, that it was not that at all. In fact, it was the only moment of clarity in the foggy storm I called my life. And I had missed it. No, I ignored it. I had abandoned it.

Because I was undeniably in love with a boy. A really, really nice boy. 

My long lost Atlantis.