Chapter 2 :
The auditorium lights buzzed faintly overhead, throwing long shadows across the stage. Elias stood in the wings, script in hand, pretending to read, but really just listening to the low, smooth voice drifting from center stage.
"…With love's light wings did I o'er-perch these walls," Rowan recited, his voice unhurried, careful—not theatrical, but intimate. "For stony limits cannot hold love out."
Mr. Kessler clapped once, sharp. "That's the tone. We don't need grand gestures, just truth. Juliet's not shouting to the balcony—he's whispering through it. Elias? Your turn."
Elias stepped out into the warmth of the stage lights. The auditorium had emptied, except for the cast and a few stragglers from set design. Still, his chest tightened like it always did before a performance.
Except this wasn't a performance. Not really.
This was rehearsal.
This was worse.
Rowan was already standing there, eyes on Elias, hands at his sides. No mask. No posture. Just him, waiting.
Elias's hands were cold. He didn't need the script, but he held it anyway, a shield he could grip without shaking.
"Neither, fair saint, if either thee dislike," Elias began, his voice carefully neutral. "How long I'll stay, to have thee still deny—"
"Stop," Kessler said gently. "Elias, I don't want Romeo the student. I want Romeo the boy who is terrified he's about to lose something he never expected to find."
Elias swallowed.
He looked at Rowan, who tilted his head slightly, as if asking Can you do it?
He tried again.
"Neither, fair saint…" His voice caught on the second word, and this time, it wasn't just nerves. "If either thee dislike, how long I'll stay…"
Rowan stepped closer—not scripted, but instinctive. Close enough for Elias to see the faint scar along Rowan's eyebrow. Close enough to smell clove and lavender and something warm.
Elias blinked. The words vanished.
"Cut," Kessler said, but not unkindly. "Let's take five."
Elias turned away fast.
In the dressing room, Elias splashed cold water on his face and stared into the mirror above the cracked porcelain sink.
What is wrong with you?
He'd played Romeo before. He'd stood across from wide-eyed Juliets in heavy eyeliner and practiced longing. He'd kissed girls onstage without flinching. But this was different.
Rowan didn't feel like a scene partner.
He felt like temptation with a heartbeat.
Elias wiped his hands and stepped out into the hallway just in time to see Rowan lean against the opposite wall, camera hanging loose around his neck.
"I wasn't trying to mess you up," Rowan said softly.
"I didn't say you were."
"You didn't have to. You looked like I hit you with a monologue about your deepest secret."
Elias stiffened.
Rowan's voice was quieter now. "I know what it's like. Playing a version of yourself so well that you forget where the mask ends."
"You don't know me," Elias said. It came out sharper than he intended.
"No," Rowan agreed. "But I see you."
Elias looked down, his throat tight.
Rowan stepped away from the wall. "I'm not asking you for anything. I'm not trying to make you… say anything. But if we're going to be Romeo and Juliet, I need to know you're at least in the room with me."
"I am," Elias whispered. "I'm just not ready to open the door."
Rowan gave a small nod. "Okay. I can wait. But I'm not going to knock forever."
He walked away, leaving Elias alone in the echo of his own heartbeat.
That night, Elias sat on his bed, lights off, journal open.
> Today I forgot my lines.
Not because I didn't know them. Because I was afraid to feel them.
Rowan looked at me like I was real.
No one's ever done that and not wanted me to be someone else.
He didn't finish the sentence. Just closed the book and pressed it against his chest, like it might steady the storm inside him.
Outside, the wind moved through the trees. The world kept spinning.
And Elias lay in bed, repeating one line over and over in his mind:
"My Juliet was a boy."