Noelle’s POV:

I’ve been wiping the same spot on the counter for two minutes.

“Earth to Noelle.” Marcus waves a hand in front of my face. His sleeve almost brushes my nose. “Are you planning on buffing a hole straight through to China?”

I step back and my shoulders tense. “Sorry.”

“No need to apologize,” he says, but his expression shifts. It’s that familiar mix of confusion and pity that I’ve been getting for months now. “Just making sure you’re still with us.”

“I’m fine,” I say.

“Hey, you know Emily’s birthday thing is tomorrow, right?” Marcus says.

My hand freezes mid-reach. “Yeah.”

“Are you coming? She really wants you there.”

Does she? I haven’t spoken to Emily outside of shift changes in weeks. But there’s something earnest in Marcus’s voice that makes my chest tighten.

“I’ll try,” I say, knowing I probably won’t.

“Last call, folks,” Aiden, another coworker, announces to our remaining customers. His voice strains to be cheerful.

My phone vibrates in my apron pocket. It’s an email from Deer Lake Conservatory with a reminder that the application videos are due in three days.

Three days to convince strangers I’m worth taking a chance on.

I glimpse at the staff bulletin board. Pinned among the schedules and health department certificate is a faded flier for my freshman year’s theater production.

The memory hits unexpectedly. I feel the rush of standing on stage, becoming someone else entirely, the applause washing over me like a cleansing rain.

I was just…alive.

Twenty minutes later, I’m sliding my key card into the library’s side entrance. Study room 118 is small, but it has what I need: privacy. I drop my overstuffed backpack onto the table and begin setting up. I unload a ring light, laptop, a change of clothes, and a notebook with half-baked thoughts. The mess spills across the surface.

My phone vibrates against the table. My mother’s calling me three minutes early. I shouldn’t be surprised.

I take a deep breath and answer.

“Hi, Mom.”

“Noelle.” Her voice is crisp, even through the phone. “Have you written your statement yet?”

I glance at my notebook and its pages of crossed-out attempts. “I’m working on it.”

“Then work harder.” I can picture her drumming her fingers impatiently. “This isn’t just a program. It’s your future.”

“I know that.” My voice comes out weak.

“Do you? Because if you did, you’d have your statement written.”

I close my eyes and count to five in my head.

“I have drafts, okay?” I suck in a breath. “They’re just not good enough.”

"Send what you have. I’ll tell you what’s good."

“Good. Have you practiced what you’re going to say?”

“Yes.”

“Out loud? To the camera?”

“To the mirror.”

“Don’t do that thing where you keep tucking your hair. It makes you look nervous.”

“I won’t.”

“And remember to breathe from your diaphragm, not your chest. Your voice gets thin when you're anxious.”

“I remember.”

“Have you thought about what you’ll say about your gap?”

We usually avoid the topic: why I haven’t been in any school production in over a year.

“I’m focusing on why I want to attend Deer Lake, not that. Plus, I’ve been doing community theater.”

“Community theater is for talentless hacks. And I’m bringing it up because they will ask.”

She sighs heavily with disappointment. “You can’t just kick it down the road.”

“I just don’t see the point of bringing it up until they do.”

“Fine.” She pauses. “Do you want to run through it once for me now?”

I look at my reflection in the mirror. I’m not ready. But I never will be if I keep stalling.

“Actually, I think I’m ready.”

The silence stretches between us. Finally, she says, “No one is going to sit there and give you permission to be an actor. You either have it or you don’t.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I say instead of arguing. “After I’ve submitted it.”

There’s another pause. “Alright. Remember what I always say–”

“If you’re not going to be the best, don’t bother trying.” I finish for her.

“That’s right,” she says, her voice is softer.

After we hang up, I stare at the blank wall where my video will frame me. Clean slate.

I open my laptop and pull up the application questions again. “Why Deer Lake Conservatory? Tell us what drives your passion for performance.”

What drives me? The need to be someone else. The desire to shed my skin. The hope that somewhere, in being other people, I might find a version of myself that’s worth keeping.

I stand up and smooth my hands down my blouse. I take deep breaths in from the diaphragm like my mother taught me.

The library’s clock ticks loudly on the wall. 10:15 PM.

My fingers hover over the record button. I’ve done this before, started and stopped a dozen practice recordings. Each one seemed worse than the list. They were too stiff. Too rehearsed. Too desperate.

Just press the damn button.

I click, and the red recording indicator light appears.

“Hi, I’m Noelle Laken, and I’m applying to Deer Lake Conservatory’s screen acting program.” My voice is higher than normal, and the forced cheerfulness makes me cringe.

I stop the recording. Delete. Start again. Too flat. The third time sounds like I’m reading from a resume. Delete, delete, delete.

The clock reads 10:22. I’m wasting time. I close my eyes for a moment and try to center myself. What would I say if I wasn’t being recorded? If I was just talking to a person who actually wanted to know my answer?

I click record again, but this time I don’t look directly at the camera. Instead, I focus just above it and imagine that a person is sitting there, ready to listen.

“Acting saved me,” I begin. “I didn’t expect it to. It had always just been a fun hobby.”

I pause, but I don’t stop the recording this time. I let the silence speak for a moment.

“My first role in college was Clara in the 'Nutcracker.' Not the ballet–the raunchy sex musical parody of it. On stage, I cracked someone’s nuts, hence the name. It was a role that terrified me.” But a smile tugs at my mouth. “But as soon as I stepped into the role, I wasn’t scared anymore. I wasn’t… me anymore.”

Words come easier. They flow with each one pulling the next along like links in a chain.

“I know how that sounds, running away from myself. And maybe I am, a little.” I let out a chuckle. “But it’s more than that. When I’m performing, I’m more honest than I ever am in real life. More vulnerable. More…everything. The past year has been…” I hesitate, unsure of how much to reveal. “Challenging. I lost my voice–not literally, but…something close to it.”

I lean forward and lower my voice.

“I’m applying to Deer Lake because I need it. Because for two hours in a community theater production of ‘Our Town,’ I remembered what it was like to breathe.”

My eyes sting, but I don’t look away.

“If you admit me…”

I’m staring down the camera now.

“I won’t let you down.”

The last words hang in the air. For several seconds, I don’t move, and I allow the moment to stretch out. I allow myself to sit with the vulnerability of what I’ve just shared.

Then I reach forward and click stop.

My finger hovers over the delete button as my mother’s voice wriggles its way into my head.

But beneath her criticism, I hear something else: my own voice. It’s clearer than it’s been in months. Stronger, too.

I sit back in the chair. My heart is still racing. I need a minute, space to breathe. My legs are unsteady as I gather my makeup bag and head for the bathroom down the hall.

In the bathroom, I grip the edge of the sink and stare at my reflection.

My phone vibrates in my pocket. A text from my mother:

Did you record it? Should I stay up to review?

Six months ago, I would have sent the video immediately and waited for her approval. I would have been willing to re-record as many times as necessary to meet her standards.

But something has shifted in the past twenty minutes.

I type back:

Finished. Going to submit it tonight. Will call you tomorrow.

The dots appear immediately. Disappear. Reappear. Finally:

Make sure to review it first. Sleep on it if necessary.

I slip the phone back into my pocket without responding.

Back in the study room, my laptop has dimmed. I wriggle the track pad and bring it back to life. The video file sits there and waits for me.

I should watch it back. I should check for awkward pauses, nervous tics, moments where my voice wavers. That’s what any reasonable person would do.

Instead, I open the Deer Lake application portal and navigate to the submission page. My fingers tremble as I click “Upload File.”

I could still delete it and start over.

But then I’d be hiding again. And I’m so tired of hiding.

Upload complete.

I click “Submit Application.”

The website loads a confirmation page. "Thank you for your application to Deer Lake Conservatory. You will receive a notification when your application status is updated."

As I pack up my things, I notice my breaths are steadier now. The panic has subsided. The library’s PA system crackles to life. “The library will be closing in fifteen minutes. Please bring any materials you wish to check out to the circulation desk.”

I don’t know if Deer Lake will admit me. I don’t know if I’m good enough, raw enough, real enough for them.

But for once, that uncertainty doesn’t terrify me.