Each rehearsal peeled another layer off Mia's carefully built defenses. She told herself she was channeling Hermia, losing herself in the role. But the truth clawed at the edges of her denial: it wasn't just acting. Every time she looked at Kris onstage, every time she had to touch him—whether in a shove or a lingering brush of fingers—her body betrayed her. Her reactions were too visceral, too instinctive.
Kris, for his part, had changed too. His delivery was still flawless, but there was a shift in how he watched her. Less mocking, more searching. Sometimes, between scenes, he'd look like he wanted to say something—his mouth parting, his brow lifting—but he never did. The silence between them grew louder with every run-through.
The cast whispered. Leo was unusually quiet. Even James, ever the pillar of teasing commentary, stopped cracking jokes during rehearsals and instead watched with furrowed brows and crossed arms. The tension had become the room's oxygen—no one acknowledged it, but everyone was breathing it in.
One afternoon, during a brief break between scenes, Ms. Dubois pulled Mia aside with that hawk-like intensity she reserved for moments of artistic revelation. "My dear," she said, eyes glittering. "I don't know what's happening between you and Mr. Windsor offstage—and I don't want to know. But I do know that whatever it is, it's igniting your work. You're living Hermia. It's astonishing."
Mia swallowed hard, her throat suddenly dry. "Thank you," she said, though her voice wavered. She didn't feel astonishing. She felt exposed.
Later, as she changed into her rehearsal dress in the wings, she caught her reflection in the costume mirror. Her face looked older, more worn than it had a week ago. Not in a tired way, but in the way someone looks after they've crossed an invisible line and can't go back.
Kris was seated nearby, absently flipping through his script, though she was certain he knew every word by heart. He glanced up as if sensing her stare, and their eyes locked for a breath too long. No smirk. No sarcasm. Just silence—and that maddeningly unreadable expression.
Finally, he spoke, his voice quiet. "You've been good in rehearsals lately."
She blinked. "Thanks." Her voice was stiff, cautious.
A beat passed.
"So have you," she added, almost reluctantly.
Another silence stretched, this one different. He looked like he wanted to say more—should say more—but instead, he just nodded once and looked away.
The curtain wasn't up yet, but Mia already felt like she was onstage. Every word was a line. Every glance a scene. And none of them knew what act they were in anymore.