Cole

It was bliss.

Fifty stage lights burning down onto the seven of us, and three hundred people looking on, waiting to see what we'd do. The biggest crowd we ever performed in front of, the anticipation palpable on both sides. We wore those baggy blue cargos and white button-ups topped with black suit jackets. You told me how stupid you thought we looked three minutes before we walked out, but secretly I bet you thought we looked cool. I blamed your dig on nerves. I don't know why you would have been nervous though, because that night you completely stole the show. Every time you took the center of our formation, the crowd went wild. Each embellishment of the moves you made... people noticed. People noticed you. How could they not? I hope you felt it.

Six months earlier you'd stumbled into our open recruiting auditions with muddy sneakers and a haircut so crooked it was obvious you'd done it yourself.

"No way. What're you... twelve?" I'd said, scoffing at the mere sight of you. When you didn't immediately fold under my judgement, it piqued my interest. You calmly dropped your bag at your side and stood in front of us, eyes trained on me.

"I'm fourteen, Junie B. Jones."

I'd recently dyed my hair ginger. So, first impression: a bit of a smart ass. I was excited enough for you to suck that I let you try out. You danced a god awful 16-count to Chris Brown's 'Wet The Bed.' I couldn't help but laugh, though, the dancer in me could see your potential.

"Okay. Now do something for real."

You stared at me with this blank expression, standing there sweating from your first attempt. The other guys glanced at me with confused eyes, but I held strong. I knew you had something else in you... something you weren't showing. You peeled off your hoodie, revealing a white t-shirt riddled with holes, and a frame much more gaunt than I'd originally realized.

And then you danced the most beautiful contemporary dance I'd ever seen. To absolutely no music.

But somehow, I could still hear you. With each haggard breath you let out, I felt the story you were trying to tell. The room fell eerily silent, just the sound of your converse on the studio floor, and those desperate, tense breaths.

"Stop."

You jumped at my voice, returning to a completely still stance, catching your breath. I could finally see something in your dark eyes. Hope.

"You're in. We do rehearsals here every Monday through Friday from six to ten pm. Get here, and get here on time."

And then, I saw your smile for the first time. You didn't say much else, just thanked us, nodded at my instruction and scurried on your way. The first rehearsal after you were added to the group, you were an hour and a half late. We were halfway through learning a new choreography when you walked in.

"I'm sorry I'm-"

I cut you off, sweaty and tired. I'd had a hard day at school, but I shouldn't have yelled.

"Are you fucking serious about this or not? Huh?"

I physically saw you recoil at my volume, cowering backwards, clutching the strap of your book bag. I felt like an asshole almost immediately. I opened my mouth again to speak, already softening, but you beat me to the punch.

"I'm serious! I'm so sorry I'm late, Sir. It won't happen again!"

You were down on your knees, bowing your head at me. All the other guys started to snicker, grabbing their water bottles from the side of the studio. I couldn't help but laugh too, taking a few steps toward you, my hand outstretched to help you up.

"It's fine. C'mon. You better pick up this combo in five minutes. And call me Silas."

You reached up and took my hand, standing.

"Can you guys call me Cole?"

I smiled, walking back to the center of the studio.

"Sure, Cole. Now watch closely."

My only family.

A few months later, it seemed like you and I had grown to understand each other. We were much more alike than not. We stayed after the others left to sharpen our executions, or perfect our facial expressions. Dancing was more than just a hobby to you and I. It was the reason we woke up in the morning, and I started to understand that. Especially when I realized how your life outside of dance seemed.

"Hey, let's head out," I'd said one night, noticing the clock was about to strike midnight. You nodded, grabbing your backpack and heading for the door. I called after you, "you hungry?"

It was a question I knew the answer to already. You always looked hungry. When there was leftover snacks at the studio you were the first to jump on them. I started to feel a responsibility to feed you, because I noticed how much happier you seemed on a full stomach.

"What's it like being a senior?" You'd asked that night, walking beside me on the sidewalk underneath the glow of street lamps. I thought about your question for a moment and then chuckled.

"It sucks. I can't wait to graduate," I said honestly, though I wish I hadn't. I wish I hadn't been so negative sometimes.

You nodded understandingly, offering your own sob story, "Middle school sucks, too. I don't even feel like a person sometimes."

"I know what you mean. Cheesy as it sounds... I think I only feel like a person when I'm dancing."

You looked over at me that night like I'd just said something in a foreign language, but you were surprised to understand it. I smiled sheepishly.

"What?"

We rounded the corner and the light of our favorite pizza shop illuminated the sidewalk, the smell of garlic knots wafting out into the open air. I grabbed the door for you, and you stopped before walking inside.

"I just feel like sometimes you read my mind," you said. I understood exactly what you meant.

"If only you could read my mind in the studio when we're changing formation," I poked playfully, though I wish I had said something more reassuring. How was I to know?

It's a lot. But not enough.

"C'mon, the cargos are cool," I grinned, doing a small spin in the dressing room. You grimaced, staring at yourself in the mirror like you had clown makeup on.

"They might have been cool in like, 2004," you shot back, a dig at calling me old. You loved pointing out the four year age difference between us, usually to make me feel like a grandpa. I didn't mind it though. You felt like the younger brother I never got to have.

"Just because you don't understand hip-hop, Ballerina Boy," I smirked, running a hand back through my ginger hair. You'd just bleached your own hair blonde. I looked great on you, though I doubted it was worth it. You told me it put you in the doghouse with your parents. I remember you didn't elaborate much... but I'd seen the bruises in the changing rooms. I could imagine.

"Are you still crashing at my house after the show tonight?" I asked then, checking the clock. Only two more minutes till the performance. You were sitting there, still staring into the mirror. I couldn't read the emotion in your eyes. At the time I assumed it was just nerves. I wish I'd asked.

"Yeah."

Kaleb popped open the dressing room door and let us know it was time. We shared a glance, and before we knew it we were on stage.

Nobody ever gave me a chance.

It was your third big performance with us as a team, and each time I was delighted by your improvements. That time, baggy cargos and all, you looked so incredibly charismatic. I envied the way you could connect with the crowd. They ate up every bit of swagger you put out, returning your energy tenfold. I'd never seen a dancer like you. And I never will again.

I want you to keep dancing.

"C'mon, I've got the car all warmed up," I called from inside my parents' beat up pickup truck, rubbing my hands together as the frigid air seeped into the car from the cracked window. You stood on the sidewalk, your feet planted in a dusting of fresh snow. Everyone else had gone home, the school completely dark, all the lights out. I remember wondering what was up with you. I wish I'd have asked. I don't think you would have told me anyway.

"I'm actually just gonna go home," you said, your words coming out in puffs of condensation, standing there with just your performance outfit on.

"Your parents are gonna come get you?" I asked, surprised at the sudden change of plans. You nodded. I didn't press you.

"Alright," I started, and then turned and dug in my backseat. I plucked out one of my other puffer jackets and tossed it out the window at you. You caught it. "Bundle up. And text me when you're home, okay?"

You agreed, and I peeled out of the lot to go home as I watched you slip into my jacket in my rearview mirror.

You kept me going. For a while, at least.

When I woke up that next morning, the windows of my house crusted with ice, I picked my phone up off of my bedside table not knowing what awaited me. I had dozens upon dozens of missed calls, and voicemails overflowing. Everyone seemed to be trying to get ahold of me. I'm not sure why I brushed all of that off so easily, but I did.

The first thing I checked, was that one text from you. I wanted to be sure you made it home safely. But your message told me so much more.

Silas,

I'm sorry. I hate to leave things this way, but I feel as though I've gotten everything I need out of this life. I want to say this last six months... it was bliss. And meeting you, and all of the guys, completely changed my perspective of things. You kept me going. For a while, at least. When times were hard, I felt like for the first time in my life I had people to lean on. You guys were my only family. I cannot thank you enough for gifting that to me.

When I was with you all... when I was dancing... I felt like maybe I'd be okay after all. Things seemed brighter, things tasted more delicious. I was... happy. But It's not so easy. As quickly as the dark clouds had gone away, they reappeared even faster. I knew logically I wouldn't be able to keep dancing from my family for long, and when they found out... I just knew today was going to be my last performance. And it was amazing. Dancing, especially with you Silas, is what makes me the happiest. It's a lot. But not enough. I just can't bear it, and for that, I'm sorry.

Can you do one thing for me, though? I want you to keep dancing. Nobody ever gave me a chance, but you did. You gave me so many chances. I always loved dancing, but with you I found new types of beauty in it. You will always be like a brother to me, in this life and the next.

I love you. Don't miss me. Just dance. Just think of me and keep dancing. Please.

Cole