A/N: I know this piece needs some work and I'm not precisely sure where it is going, so constructive criticism is welcome.

Disclaimer: I don't own.

There's a knock at my door. "Mark, are you ready for Maureen's show?"

I pull my boxers on and raise my voice so Roger can hear. "Sorry, Rog, I got up late. Give me five minutes."

"Alright, five minutes only. Or Maureen'll have my ass!"

I laugh and hear Roger walk off.

Maureen's finally made it big. Off-Broadway, and not a shabby Off-Broadway either—a nice little Off-Broadway uptown with heat and air conditioning and public funding. The Real Deal.

I button my black jeans.

I used to perform. I was a dancer for the longest time. I acted and sang, too. I could have done a one-man musical if someone called in sick. Yeah, I know it's surprising that quiet, observing, filmmaker Mark Cohen was a ballerina. I have to get my atrocious, spastic table-dancing skills and guts from somewhere. I was a different person when I first came to the city.

Back in eighth grade, I auditioned for the High School of the Performing Arts in the city. My parents were going to let me live with my aunt Elizabeth if I got in. After an extremely stressful audition day, I made it through the final cuts. It was all I could do to actually finish eighth grade. I was so excited to be going to PA, and all summer I practiced my dance and practiced my dance and practiced monologue after friggin' monologue. My dance partner in ballroom was livid with me, but I was too excited to care. Middle school had not been kind to me (honestly, a boy who dances and photographs?), and I was ecstatic when I moved in with Aunt Lizzy in August, ready to be away from it all.

I tuck in my black t-shirt.

Aunt Lizzy is a complete eccentric bat, but she moved to the city to act when she was 15, so I had reasoned that she couldn't have been that bad. I've lost track of her since I graduated from high school. (Dad says she moved to Israel to be with their parents since they're getting old and they wouldn't move to the states.) She gave me my first pairs of ballet and tap shoes in second grade, since I'd been using old pairs I'd stolen out of Cindy's closet before then, and taught me the song and dance routine to "I Can Do That" from A Chorus Line that same Hanukah. She was very humored by that and I sucked up all the attention I could get when she was around. I remember Dad rolling his eyes at his sister's antics and his son's femininity (he's not overly fond of her), but I couldn't have cared less when she was there.

On the first day of high school, Aunt Lizzy dropped me off at the subway station on her way to her job as director at a theatre somewhere or other in Greenwich. I took the subway to 45th street and walked the block to 46th, dance bag (which now served doubly as dance bag and backpack) and camera bag banging off my legs.

I thread the belt through my belt loops.

I remember on that day, being so inexplicably awed by the dance teachers and my main subject classes. Even the teachers in the boring classes understood our need to express and communicate.

I practically skipped to the subway station on the way home. I was still wearing my dance tights and shorts, and the funny thing was that I didn't care and no one else seemed to care—or notice—either. I had discovered the blessing of the anonymity of the city. Aunt Lizzy met me as I hopped off the subway and she decided to treat me to dinner out to celebrate a great first day of high school. I was so glad to be in the city with my crazy, yet amazing, aunt. I have a picture of her from that night—her and that little café in the heart of Greenwich that she loved so much.

I pull a green and beige striped turtleneck over my head.

School was great. My academics stayed at a steady A average (though I think the geometry honors teacher cut me a little slack) and my dancing prowess had increased dramatically, even the teachers had told me so. By third quarter, one of them even told me I had some of the most potential and skill they'd ever seen. I jokingly replied with, "Wait 'til you see my films." I think I jinxed myself that day.

After going home for the summer and hanging out with the very few friends I retained in middle school, I returned to PA. Half-way through first quarter, I began getting tired constantly, but I continued pushing myself through my dance classes and exerting all the strength and passion and energy that I could. After school, I continued staying up until odd hours of the night working acting exercises and assignments with friends, doing the boring homework, and developing film. Half-way through second quarter, I was doing a partnered ballet combination with one of my close friends when suddenly I became inordinately dizzy and light-headed after coming out of a triple pirouette, though I always spotted. I stood dazedly for a moment, tried to go into the next balencé, and passed out.

I pull a pair of grey socks and black street shoes on.

A week after that, I found out that something was seriously wrong with me. The blood test that my aunt had made me endure came back. It was almost an "Oh, its just mononucleosis" diagnosis. It was so close. But then the other test they'd run came back. It wasn't mono. I had leukemia.

Obviously, I started treatment soon after that. Horrible treatment that made acting and studying dance near impossible. My teachers were very understanding and allowed me to continue my studies, when they could have just as easily transferred me to another school. When I didn't have the energy to dance or stand on stage for a long period of time (which, admittedly, was quite a lot), I filmed the classes and the kids in them. Whenever somebody asked me how I was doing, I'd peer out from behind my camera, smile, and answer with "Oh, I'm just great" or if they were in the dance division "Oh, almost ready for lifts again" and the boy or girl would smile and sashay off. Only my closest friends ever really knew what was going on, and since I was in the theater and dance departments, that was quite a feat. Performers are generally a pretty open bunch. I wasn't necessarily too fond of that.

Then during the second round of chemo in the winter, I was too sick to even go to school. I spent a lot of time reading or working on a screenplay or make-up work, but when organized thought and concentration was just too much, I spent it watching movies and musicals. I watched Fame approximately 50 times with a million different people from school in that period. I mean, the movie had just come out, I was stuck at home sick and absolutely miserable, and we were the Fame school. My friends thought it was the least they could do.

I put my glasses on.

It was also during this time that I began to actually dissect successful, or at least famous, actors' techniques. I revealed a certain amount of flakiness and I somehow thought they were missing the point. I started thinking how they should have looked harder at their lover in that moment or how they had tried too hard for the showy tears they cried. They weren't making me want to cry. They were making me forcibly restrain laughter. After the mental critiquing made it difficult for me to fully immerse myself in a good story anymore (and doubt my worth as an actor), I began critiquing the creators. Wouldn't it be better if he switched those two words around, omitted a sentence here, tweaked a reaction there? What if the camera zoomed out there, instead of in, in order to capture the desolate background as well as the distraught woman's face?

Despite my illness, I managed to audition for Governor's School of the Arts in the winter (and got in), but when I went back to PA in the spring, right before final quarter started, I was very behind. My skill level was still beyond that of most of the class, but I'd missed so many combinations and new movements, it was overwhelming. I took to setting up my camera in the corner and recording the classes, then going home and learning the steps I'd missed. I still couldn't dance as much as I would have liked to, but the doctors said to take it easy. If I pushed myself too hard or got too stressed out, I could have a relapse.

By the end of the school year, I was caught back up, relatively healthy, and working toward Governor's School. I didn't know a disease could strike and then leave me coughing in its dust-strewn wake so quickly.

I was definitely back to normal, but my audacity and confidence that generally accompanied my performing had diminished. I tried to brush off my bitter thoughts toward acting, actors, and myself, and somehow I managed to, continuing on with it. I still couldn't quite shake the revelation I'd had during my home-ridden months, however, and my lack of nerve was quite a punch to my dramatic ego. Step One in becoming the Observer.

I run a comb through my hair.

That summer at Governor's School of the Arts, I had a surprise roommate. None of the other boys from my dance classes had made it in and the acting boys were rooming together. "It'll be an exciting adventure! Think of it as a theatre exercise," Aunt Lizzy had encouraged, flailing her bangle-clad wrists and looking for all the world like a loony. Despite her confidence, I was slightly distressed over the whole roommate deal, my hair only half grown back and my own confidence "slightly" lacking. I pushed on the door to the room, expecting it to be locked, but it swung inward with a bang. I tumbled inside, dropping a bag on my foot and scowling embarrassedly at nothing in particular. My roommate looked up from the bed opposite me, fingers nimbly leafing through a pile of music and feet drumming out a rhythm on one of two instrument cases at the bed's head.

"Hey," he'd said, smiling and sitting up abruptly. "The name's Roger. Remember that. It'll be real important one day." He put on a fake British accent and grabbed the bag off my foot, throwing it on the other bed with a slight bang. "And you are?"

I'd paused, taken aback. Stuttering, I managed, "Mark. Mark Cohen. I'm hoping that that'll be pretty important, too."

That was the day I first met Roger. I'd have to say that that was a pretty good experience.

I pull my plaid jacket on over my sweater and wrap my scarf around my neck. I grab my camera out of its case, throw the camera bag over my shoulder, and run out into the main room to find Rog strumming his guitar contentedly.

"Hey," he says, laughing, "Four minutes and forty-seven seconds. You're early. Mazel tov.

I chuckle and roll my eyes. "Thanks."

"Ready?" He asks, standing up, setting his guitar on its stand, and jerking his head toward the door. "Meems is meeting us there."

He actually said Mimi but the mi's and the is kind of melded together.

"Yeah," I answer. I make sure to grab Maureen's bouquet from the milk crate table on the way out. Wouldn't want to forget that.

So, yeah, I used to perform, but one thing led to another and, in the end, nothing lasts forever.