Chapter 5: A Stage Between Us

It’s Oliver.

Of course it is.

He doesn’t say a word—just stands there, arm still out, like he's offering me something I don’t deserve. Like I’m someone worth helping.

And maybe that’s what makes it worse.

I push myself up without taking his hand. My legs tremble, but I grit my teeth and force myself to stand on my own. Even if it hurts. Even if every part of me is screaming.

Even if I want nothing more than to disappear.

Oliver’s hand drops slowly to his side. His expression doesn’t change, but something flickers in his eyes—like he wasn’t surprised I refused, but it still stung.

Neither of us says anything.

The crowd starts to drift off, bored now that the show’s over.

And I walk away.

Head down, heart pounding, shame stuck to my skin like glue.

I don’t stop walking until I’m clear of the buildings and the noise and the stares. I find myself in the garden behind the campus library, half-wild and mostly empty this time of day. A few students lie sprawled in the grass with headphones or textbooks, but no one notices me. I take the nearest bench and drop into it like I’ve been carrying my body all morning.

The quiet should help.

It doesn’t.

"Out of everyone I could’ve imagined seeing today for the first time on the campus, the last person I expected was Oliver."

I sit there, elbows on my knees, staring at the cracks in the pavement, and all I can feel is this weight—pressing down, choking out the good air. That moment in the hallway won’t leave my head. Alan’s words. The laughter. Oliver's hand I didn’t take.

What is this feeling?

This sharp, sour ache in my chest, like I’ve swallowed broken glass.

I try to trace it back.

And then I know.

The last time I felt like this was when my parents were tearing each other apart in the kitchen. When voices turned into screams, and home stopped feeling like home.

Back then, there was only one place that ever made the noise stop.

The theater.

Almost on instinct, I stand up.

Maybe it’s stupid. Maybe I’m just desperate. But the idea of stepping into that old stage again, breathing in the velvet and the sawdust and the paint... It’s enough to get me moving.

I head across campus, past the lecture halls and cafeterias, until the familiar stone columns of the performing arts wing come into view. The theater club always sets up near the side entrance during recruitment week, and sure enough—

“Hey! Jude!”

Samantha.

She’s waving a stack of flyers in the air, her dark curls bouncing as she beams at me. She looks almost exactly like she did last year—except now she’s in charge. She finishes handing out a few last papers to passing students before jogging up to me.

“You came,” she says, a little breathless. “I was hoping you would.”

“I didn’t exactly plan it,” I admit. “Just needed air. And maybe… something else.”

She grins. “Well, lucky for you, we’re still accepting old members. You don’t even need to fill anything out—just give your name again, and boom, you’re in.”

We walk toward the club room, tucked behind the small black-box theater. As we pass the posters taped to the wall—last year’s cast list, blurry photos from competitions—I feel something loosen in my chest.

“Remember that scene?” she says, pointing at one photo of us in costume. “The one from The Crucible? You practically brought the judges to tears.”

“I remember,” I say, smiling despite myself. “You wouldn’t shut up about it for weeks.”

She elbows me lightly. “Because we almost won. And this year, we will.”

We reach the doors. She pushes them open, and the smell hits me instantly—paint, dust, fabric, old scripts. Comfort.

“I’ve missed this,” I murmur.

“Well, good,” she says. “Because you’re back. And unlike the new guy—uh, that one over there—you already know how to project.”

I follow her gaze—and my stomach drops.

Of course.

Of course it’s him.

Oliver stands a few feet away, staring at one of the posters like he’s never seen a stage before. He’s got a flyer in hand—her flyer. His posture is straight, determined. Like he’s already made the decision.

Samantha’s still talking. “He asked a bunch of questions. Seems super motivated. Maybe a little intense, though.”

I don’t answer.

Because he turns just then, catching sight of us. Of me.

And our eyes meet. Is his presence here a mere coincidence or did he do it on purpose?

His flicker with something I don’t understand. Not smug. Not surprised. Just—watching.

Samantha waves him over. “Hey! You here to sign up?” 

He starts to open his mouth, maybe to make an excuse—but before he can answer—

The door bursts open.

“Jude!”

Mrs. Smith.

The drama teacher strides out like a queen returning to her kingdom, her long skirt swishing, arms already reaching for me. “I knew you wouldn’t abandon us! Thank you for honoring us with your presence again this year!”

“Uh—”

She sweeps on, unbothered. “Come and see me for your registration. Your performance last year? Blew me away. You’re exactly what we need to bring home the trophy this time.”

She’s beaming so wide I can’t get a word in.

Oliver glances between us, something unreadable behind his eyes.

And me?

I just nod.

Mrs. Smith turns to greet another student, giving me just enough space to breathe—but not enough time to escape.

Samantha claps her hands. “Well, that’s settled. You’re back.” She shoots me a look. “I’m putting your name down before you change your mind.”

“I wasn’t going to—” I start, then glance at Oliver.

Yeah. I was.

But now it’s too late. And Mrs. Smith’s warmth still clings to me like a wool blanket—scratchy, impossible to shrug off, but oddly comforting.

I look down at the sign-up sheet Samantha’s holding out.

My pen hovers.

Why am I doing this, Knowing full well that it will be a great excuse for Oliver to be in my company? 

Because it’s theater. Because it’s the only place that’s ever felt like mine. Because when the lights hit and the lines come out and I stop being me, the world quiets.

I scrawl my name.

“There,” Samantha says brightly. “Now you can’t bail.”

Oliver’s standing off to the side now, arms folded. Watching. Still quiet. Still unreadable.

Then Mrs. Smith turns to him.

“And you?” Her voice softens just a little, her head tilting as if to gently ask his name.

He blinks, like he hadn’t expected the attention. “Oliver,” he says after a beat.

She smiles, warm and welcoming. “Okay, Oliver. Are you thinking of joining us?”

He pau

ses—just long enough to make it feel deliberate—then nods slowly. “Yeah… I think I am.”

I bite the inside of my cheek.

Of course he is.