George POV

"No mom. I hate this. I'm not going in."

"Now George. Come on, it's a musical. You like musicals." I huffed.

"Not a ballet recital?" I held out my pinky. She scrunched her nose and gave me a cute smile. "Promise?"

"I promise." She linked her pinky around mine and shook. "Can we go in now?" I nodded and undid my seatbelt. A play sounded nice. I could do good with a play.

We walked in and took our seats. I took the paper from the seat and eyed the paper. Expecting to see a cast list or a guide to the setlist. Not the different people who would be performing."

"Mom!" I hissed. She only gave me a tight smile and shushed me.

"Quiet. It's starting." I tried to sit up but her firm grip on my wrist was too strong. The lights were already dimming.

"Mom please no-"

"George, come on. All I have wanted you to do is dance."

"I am not going to dance. Ever. Nor am I going to watch other people dance. let me go."

"Now George. You are throwing quite the tantrum for a grown man."

"Mom," I whined. Finally, I slumped back into my chair. Blurring my eyes as I dazed during the performances. After a few, I whispered to my mom. "Mom I'm going to the bathroom."

"Darling there is only one more set before intermission-" She began to whisper. I only gave her a look.

"I'll come back." I won't come back.

She sighed. "Fine." She loosened her grip on me and I wriggled my way out to the aisle. I was right about to push the door open when I heard the music begin. So much more enchanting than all the others.

I stood there. Watching as the muscular boy tiptoed his way onto the stage. He looked to be gliding across it, each step he took was like he was walking on air. I wondered if he was even touching the wood beneath him.

He had bright, shimmery, gold glitter on his face. Highlighting and accentuating the sharpness of his cheekbones. He had profound eyeliner with thick long wings that I could make out from the back of the auditorium. A sheer tulle, skirt with a tight top with long sleeves. It appeared to be lime green. His blond sandy hair was wavy and curling at the bottom of his ears. And I could see that he had thick patches of freckles along with his nose and cheeks.

I glanced down at the paper I had found in my seat, it was still clutched violently in my hand. Crinkled underneath my knuckles. If I had guess right, this was Dream. The only one who would be performing a solo on the stage and not in groups. I looked back up at the boy in the green sheer tutu and the ballet shoes he was wearing to match it so perfectly. Dream. Such a fitting name. And it had paired perfectly with the moves he was making and the airy sounds the orchestra was composing for him.

A dream. It was like he was performing in one. Like if he stepped any harder than he was now, it would shatter. All of it for nothing and then he would be awake again.

Suddenly, his foot slammed onto the floor. Definitely not a move that you would see in any regular ballet. But as I stared at him more, I realized. This wasn't just regular ballet, it was him. He was putting his heart and soul into every single movement he was making. He had the grace of a prima ballerina.

Randomly, his moves were now violent, scared even. And the music was following along with him perfectly. A nightmare. It had turned into a nightmare. Almost like he had done exactly what I thought he was trying to avoid: Waking up. He was going back into reality, scary real world, all hell breaks loose, nightmarish reality.

I couldn't tear my eyes away from him. He was telling a story with his arms and his legs. He was leaping across the stage and twirling on just the tips of his toes. All of it, somehow I understood what he was telling me. It was like I could smell the pain and the sorrow radiating off of him from here. He was narrating his life on the stage without a word tumbling from his lips.

I looked around at the people next to me. All of them looking at it like it was nothing. Was I the only one in the crowd that could see what you were screaming? Was I the only one that was seeing and acknowledging you saying: "I'm in pain. I'm hurting"? How could no one else see this?

Finally, I saw someone, a woman with fragile skin and worn eyes. Blond sandy hair just like the boy on the stage. She held a hand over her mouth and was shaking with sadness. Tears erupting from her eyes like a violent volcano. She too was staring at the stage, her eyes flicking from place to place in order to follow him. She had an empty seat next to her, and so I asked permission to sit of which she granted.

We both sat there, looking at the boy. I wanted him to catch my eyes, I wanted him to see me say: "I see you. I'm hearing what no one else is." And for a moment, just for a moment, I swear it was almost like he could hear those words repeating in my head because he looked at me. Or in my general direction but he looked toward me, while still in the middle of his arrangement his eyes were darting across the auditorium. Almost as if he was looking for the person who had said it.

Me it was me, I said it. See me. Know that you aren't alone.

Finally, his body fell to the ground. And he curled himself as if he was shielding his body from getting hurt. Maybe he was, maybe he was doing everything in his power to stop himself from getting hurt. Maybe he already had been.

The curtain closed in front of him. Cheers and roars echoed in the room. The ending of the show. How come he had come and gone so quickly? Why did it only feel like seconds compared to the thousands of other arrangements I had seen over the years?

All of these people were cheering and clapping, yet I was angry. Because none of them besides me and this old woman, heard your cry.

Funny, how I was moments from walking out the exit. How my mother had made me so angry by dragging me here just to ruin the night even more. How she knew I hated ballet yet brought me anyway. Yet somehow, this boy pulled me back in. It was almost as if he said to me directly, 'No sit-down and watch me. Watch me like your life depends on it and don't you dare take your eyes off me.' And I obeyed. I sat down and I watched. I watched and watched like it was the most beautiful thing in the world. Like You were The Sun on the stage and I was merely nothing more than a little planet. Forced to orbit you like it was my sole purpose in the universe. You were The Sun, a gorgeous star, and I was nothing but one of the millions that circled around you.

I only realized I had been staring for so long when I snapped out of it. The lights were on and most of the people were already out of the seats. He had left me that entranced. We were almost halfway through the time for intermission.

"Funny. He does that to you, doesn't he? Makes him the only thing that can be seen." I gulped and looked over at the woman next to me. I gave her a shy nod.

"He's been doing it since he was young. I knew that he was going to be a leader, he always had been. And just then, he led us all on a journey our hearts won't forget. Our minds maybe will, but our hearts? No. They will see a set of ballet slippers and think nothing of it. But their hearts will be wrenching from the amount of love that my son just put on the stage."

"He has a talent. I hate ballet. I always have, yet here we are. He's made me feel something that I never have before. I envy him, for being able to stick with the art." The woman gave me a warm smile.

"George." I snapped my focus onto her fully.

"How-"

"You were there. A shy boy who had just as much talent as my son. Yet you didn't have the love for it that he did. A boy whose mother forced him to dance when he wanted nothing more than to do anything else. You probably would have taken up sports as long as it meant that you could stop dancing."

"You... You know me." The woman nodded.

"I do. I remember the day you met Clay. That was the first time that I had ever seen your eyes shine while in that studio. - I was your teacher, as well as my son's - You watched him just like you did while he was up there. You watched him dance and you loved it. But still, even though you were able to see him in class, I could tell your heart wasn't there." I shook my head.

"It's not that. I didn't hate dancing. I love it." She seemed almost taken aback by that.

"Pardon?"

"I used to watch my mother dance and I knew that was all I wanted. That's what she wanted for me too." I took a deep breath. I had never talked about this before. "When I was ten, I went into a competition. It was a small one, but I was so close to winning. I was almost there, and then I fell. I hurt my ankle and it... It was never the same after that. I wasn't able to do the same things I was hoping I would one day. My doctor said that once it was hurt, it was bound to happen again and again and again. It would only get worse from there. It was safer for me to just not dance at all. My dream ended when I was only ten." I scoffed.

"My mother wanted me to stick with it. But I grew to hate it. Knowing that it meant nothing to me then and I would get nowhere made me loathe the art." I sniffled. My eyes burning. "I hate it because I can't do it anymore."

The woman cocked her head to the side, flashed me a reassuring motherly smile, and pulled me into a hug. I was shocked but slowly hugged her back. "You know you can dance, darling. I can see it in you that you have the same fire inside of you that Dream does. I watched you when you were young and knew that you had potential. Ballet will always be part of you. You can't escape it." I nodded and hid myself deep in her cardigan.

"I love it. I still love it."

"I know." She pulled away and smiled. "How about you meet, Dream? Maybe you two can talk? Maybe you two can dance." It seemed more like an order than a suggestion. So I nodded and followed her backstage.

"Dream, baby that was amazing!" His mother pulled him into a hug and smothered kisses on his cheeks. "You did that wonderfully." I stood there in the doorway awkwardly while I waited for her to be done. Finally, his eyes caught my amused smile and he pulled away with a flushed face and giggles.

The boy could perform in front of nearly two hundred people and not flush red but the moment his mother embarrassed him was a completely different story.

"Uh hi, I'm Dream." I smiled.

"I'm well aware. Consider me a new die-hard fan." I said. Dream laughed and scratched the back of his neck. "I met your mother while we were both crying from your performance."

"Oh I'm sorry about that."

"No no. It was a compliment."

"OH Dream!" His mother intervened. I was so entranced with seeing him up close I forgot she was there. "He is someone from way back in the day! You used to practice at the same studio when you were twelve!" I shoved my hands in my pockets.

"You dance?" His face lit up.

I stammered, "I well I used to. It's a long story." I said. His face softened.

"How about we get coffee and you can tell me sometime." Oh, God. The cute ballerina was asking me out. Oh my God.

"Uhm, yeah- yeah that would be amazing." Quickly, Dream scrambled for a pen. He clicked it and pulled my hand over to him.

"There. Text me, call me. It doesn't matter." He said, writing down his number on my palm.

"I will." We said our goodbyes and I tumbled my way out of the theater. Still high off a performance that would stick with me forever.

I would wait for my mother out here for the rest of the show. I needed a moment to compose myself anyway.