The connection between us was undeniable. I leaped; he caught me and lifted me into the air. I soared like a bird high above everyone else. Then he gently set me down. Then smiling, we continued to speak our own language. We moved with each other, dancing together as one. Finally, our time had pasted and we sashayed off the stage.

“That was awesome,” I squealed. I leaned into hug him. It felt good and familiar. It wasn’t until I let go that I felt the same, stiff awkwardness as he did. “Well, um,” I mumbled, “good job.”

“Yeah,” he barely whispered, “you too.”

Then he disappeared for a snack and I left for a costume change, wishing that things between us were different, wishing that I hadn’t screwed up. I tied my pointe shoes and I prayed for a second chance.

*
*
*


We had been paired together and for some reason, he liked me. He was a beautiful person and a beautiful dancer. Boy-oh-boy I liked him. We started to go out and our dancing got even better. But then, I had to go and try to make him jealous. I was stupid. I wanted him to love me more. How could I not see that he loved me more than anyone else had ever loved me?

*
*
*


I walked around backstage and tried to make sense of myself. Then, he appeared. I walked towards him and cornered him so he would listen.

“I need to talk to you,” I put my hands on his hips so he would be focused on me, “about what happened last year.”

He gently pushed my hands away, “No Anne. It wouldn’t work for me. I can’t put myself through that again.”

Then our time came. We twirled simultaneously unto the stage and danced. And I realized that was the only connection we had anymore.