Every great alliance starts with a peace offering.

---

The first few weeks of rehearsal settled into a strange and frustrating rhythm.

On stage, under the warm, forgiving glow of the lights, everything was perfect.

As Ethan and Marco, they were flawless.

Ryan would deliver a line trembling with scripted anxiety, and Jude, as Marco, would clap a hand on his shoulder—his voice a warm balm of reassurance.

They found their timing; they landed their jokes. For those brief ten-minute scenes, they were the best of friends.

The moment Ms. Davison yelled, “Cut! Take five, everyone,” the spell shattered.

The invisible wall between them slammed back into place.

Jude would laugh and go talk to another cast member, and Ryan would retreat.

It was still strange seeing him everywhere now — in rehearsal, in the halls, even in fourth-period English — like he’d slipped into Ryan’s life halfway through the semester without anyone announcing it.

He was desperate to say something—anything—to bridge the gap between Ethan and Marco and Ryan and Jude.

But his brain, a relentlessly unhelpful co-pilot, provided a running commentary of social doom.

Okay, just say something simple, the voice of reason in his head would begin. Just—‘Hey, you were good in that scene.’

No, that’s lame and obvious, the louder voice of anxiety would immediately retort. He knows he was good. You’ll sound like a sycophant. Try ‘I like your shirt.’

Absolutely not. That’s what a creepy person would say. How about asking a question?

Such as? ‘What’s your favorite color?’ Are you five years old? Just be quiet. No one has ever been embarrassed by something they didn’t say. Quiet is safe.

And so, quiet won. Every time.

---

Jude, for his part, noticed.

He saw the way Ryan would snap back into himself the second the scene was over—shoulders hunching, eyes darting down to his ever-present notebook.

Jude found it strangely endearing, this clear division between the boy and the character he played, but he wasn’t sure how to cross it without spooking him.

He kept it casual: a small smile, a quick “See ya later.”

But he was taking notes. Gathering data.

---

The breakthrough came, as it so often did in high school, in the neutral territory of the cafeteria.

Ryan sat at his usual table in the corner, a lonely island in a sea of noise, attempting to read a comic book propped against a milk carton.

A tray clattered down across from him.

He looked up, startled.

It was Jude.

“Hey,” Jude said, with a casualness Ryan knew must have been carefully crafted. “Mind if I sit here? Other tables are way too loud.”

Ryan was so shocked he managed only a jerky nod.

His brain went into overdrive. He’s sitting here. Okay. This is happening. Say something. Anything. Talk about the weather. No, that’s an old-person thing. Homework? Nerd alert. Just say nothing. But that’s rude!

“So,” Jude began—effortlessly saving Ryan from his own internal paralysis as he unwrapped a sandwich—“that trailer for the new Thunderbolts movie dropped. Looks kinda nuts, right?”

It was the perfect opening. A life raft. A topic Ryan was fluent in.

“Yeah,” he managed, his voice a little hoarse. He cleared his throat. “Yeah, I saw it. The effects look… unfinished. But the character designs are pretty comic-accurate.”

And just like that, a real conversation started.

Slow at first—Ryan’s one-word answers, Jude’s easy, open-ended questions—but as they talked about comic-book lore, debated the best animated shows, and argued whether one superhero could beat another in a fight, Ryan began to unfold.

He was no longer just nodding; he was explaining, gesturing, his passion momentarily overriding his anxiety.

For fifteen minutes, he forgot to be scared.

He just… talked.

---

The real treaty, however, was signed a few days later.

Rehearsal had run long.

Ryan was packing his bag, his energy completely depleted, when his stomach let out a loud, pathetic, and undeniably audible rumble.

Mortification hit like a heatwave.

He froze, hoping no one had heard.

“Hey,” Jude’s voice said from behind him.

Ryan turned, face already burning.

Jude wasn’t laughing.

He was reaching into his backpack. He pulled out a slightly crushed granola bar and tossed it to him.

Ryan fumbled the catch but managed to hold on.

“Here,” Jude said, with that same easy smile from the lunchroom. “You look like you’re running on empty.”

The gesture was so simple, so practical, so completely devoid of subtext that it bypassed all of Ryan’s carefully constructed defenses.

It wasn’t a joke or a test. It was just… care.

He looked down at the granola bar in his hand as if it were a rare artifact.

“Oh,” he said quietly. “…Thanks.”

Their hands brushed for a split second as he took it.

The touch was nothing—a flicker of static—but it felt like everything.

---

That night, Ryan sat at his desk going over lines, the empty granola-bar wrapper resting beside him like a trophy.

His phone buzzed—an unknown number.

He opened the text, heart giving a single, hard thump.

> Hey, it’s Jude. (Marco from the play). You survived rehearsal. Good job. 👍

Ryan stared at the message. Then read it again. And again.

A slow, uncontrollable blush crept from his chest to his hairline.

He wasn’t just on the cast list anymore.

He was on Jude’s contact list.

The world, he realized, had just gotten a little bit bigger.

---

Chapter Word

Diplomacy (n.):

The art of navigating delicate social situations.

Often involves strategic maneuvers, careful language, and—when all else fails—the offering of a snack as a treaty.