The theatre felt colder than she remembered.

Elena stood at center stage, hands loosely clasped in front of her, as though the stillness around her demanded its own form of discipline. Morning light seeped through the upper windows, thin and pale, unable to reach the deep rows of seats. The work lamps cast a muted glow that illuminated the dust suspended in the air like a constellation refusing to settle.

She breathed in the scent of varnished wood and aging velvet, a mixture that lived somewhere between comfort and warning. Seven years had passed since she had last stood in this place with him, yet the room greeted her with a familiarity that felt almost dangerous.

A floorboard groaned softly beneath her heel. She nearly smiled.

Mira’s footsteps entered the space before her voice did. “You’re here early.”

“So are you,” Elena replied without turning.

“I’m here because I know you didn’t sleep.”

“That’s not the reason.”

“Of course not.”

Mira stepped beside her, placing two coffees on the stage edge. Elena took one without comment, their silence easier than most conversations. Mira knew that quietness, for Elena, often meant more than words could handle.

“You had the dream again?” Mira asked.

“No.”

“Liar.”

Elena didn’t argue. Instead, her gaze drifted toward a seat in the front row—one that seemed sharper than the others, as though the light insisted on touching it. Before Mira could speak again, the air shifted. Elena felt it before she heard anything: a door opening, footsteps in the lobby, a presence entering the room like a familiar chord.

“Elena.”

Her name broke the stillness. She turned slowly.

Adrian Vale stood at the end of the aisle, script tucked beneath his arm. He looked almost unchanged—dark hair falling gently over his forehead, eyes alert with the quiet intensity she wished she didn’t still recognize.

“Long time,” he said.

“You’re early.”

“So are you.”

Their distance held.

Mira gave a subtle wave before slipping away, leaving the space between them unshielded. Adrian stepped forward once. Elena held her ground.

“I wasn’t sure you’d take the script,” he said.

“I took it.”

“Did you read it?”

“Yes.”

Silence stretched, fragile as thin glass.

“Rehearsal starts at ten,” she said.

“I’ll be here.”

“I know.”

She walked away before he could speak again.

The hours before rehearsal always carried a particular stillness—an intermission between who the actors were and who they were about to become. Elena moved along the stage, checking marks, adjusting notes in her journal. Ink and paper were easier companions than people.

Behind her, Adrian took a seat in the second row. She sensed him like a draft in a closed room—subtle but impossible to ignore.

“You changed Act Two,” he said.

“It needed to change.”

“That scene used to be a confession.”

“It was indulgent.”

“That’s your least convincing lie.”

Her fingers stilled.

The cast began trickling in—stagehands, techs, actors warming their voices. The theatre shifted into its working rhythm, and Elena welcomed it.

When the first scene began, she stepped into the shadows. But the script—his script—betrayed her.

The lead actor spoke a line she had long buried:

“I thought leaving would spare you. I was wrong.”

Her breath caught. Adrian noticed.

“Again,” she said, voice steady. “Less sentiment.”

Later, as she gave notes, Mira whispered, “You’re shaking.”

“It’s cold.”

“No. It’s him.”

She said nothing.

Scene by scene, she rebuilt her composure. She corrected pacing, gestures, the shape of silence between lines. Precision grounded her, even as memory pulled at her edges.

During a transition, she moved toward the wings. Adrian’s steps approached—soft, careful, familiar.

“You’re pushing them hard,” he said.

“They need precision.”

“They need direction, not distance.”

“If you’re critiquing my process—”

“I’m not,” he said gently. “I know what it looks like when you’re trying to outrun something.”

She froze.

“Elena,” he said, stepping closer but not touching, “if this is too much—”

“It isn’t.”

“You don’t have to prove anything.”

She exhaled sharply. “I’m not proving anything.”

“That’s the second lie you’ve told today.”

Before she could respond, Mira called her. Elena escaped toward the stage.

The next scene began.  

A violinist played the cue.  

A melody too familiar.

Her melody.  

The one he had written for her last performance seven years ago.

Her body locked.

“Cut the music!” Mira shouted.

The violin fell silent.

“Elena,” Adrian said, stepping toward her, “sit.”

She didn’t turn. “Don’t come closer.”

He stopped instantly.

The cast watched, uncertain if they were intruding on something private or sacred.

Elena drew breath. “Five-minute break.”

She stepped offstage with the slow precision of someone rebuilding her balance with each footfall.

At the side door, her hand reached for the handle.

“Elena.”

He said it the same way he had the night he left—quiet, breaking, too familiar.

She half-turned.

“You’re here for the production,” she said. “That’s all.”

“I’m here because I wrote this for you.”

“Don’t.”

“It’s the truth.”

“Truth doesn’t fix anything.”

“I know. But it’s all I have left.”

Her hand trembled. He saw it. He always saw too much.

“You don’t have to forgive me,” he said.

“I won’t.”

He nodded. “I know.”

Silence sat between them—raw, unfinished.

“You’re shaking,” he whispered.

“It’s just the music.”

“No. It’s everything.”

She closed her eyes, letting the quiet hold her just long enough to breathe again.

“We have rehearsal,” she said.

Relief crossed his expression, soft and unguarded. “I’ll be out there.”

She stepped into the hallway.

When she returned through another door, Mira asked, “You okay?”

“Yes.”

“Liar.”

Elena almost smiled.

She moved to the front of the stage.

“Act One,” she called out. “From the top.”

Her hands no longer shook.

Her heart did.  

But she let it.

Because she finally understood—  

she didn’t need to be unbreakable  

to stand in the light.