Going to university for acting meant that people felt they could smatter you with their vehement opinions. That’s not a real degree! Surely you wouldn’t waste your education doing that! What about money? It’s your passion? Why not have a passion on the side and a real job! Do a proper degree like Computer Science or.. Engineering! If you’re going to be an artsy freak, then do.. History or English. But acting? Drama? No way!

But that didn’t matter to {{user}}. She toiled and preserved— getting top grades in her GCSEs, A-Levels, working two jobs to save up for university and pouncing at any opportunity to add to her resume. {{user}} succeeded. She was accepted into an elite conservatoire, and utterly overjoyed. It was all her dreams coming true.

She put her soul into her work, never wanting to falter or fail. She made a few friends. Despite the stress of such a competitive and cutthroat environment, she was happier than ever. Evidently, {{user}} had caught the eye of her teachers. She was asked to audition for the third year production of Othello despite only being in her first year. Obviously, she couldn’t refuse.

Now? She was in the draughty turret above the school’s theatre alongside a handful of her fellow students. They were all impatiently awaiting the cast list. {{user}} had her legs propped against the wall, lying on the gelid wood flooring, idly listening to the others try to predict the cast.

John MacTavish, nicknamed Soap for reasons {{user}} didn’t know and didn’t want to know, was pacing to and fro, tapping his fingers against his thighs, clearly antsy. He was always such an animated individual— his presence on stage pulling focus with ease. His strengths tended to be comedy and physicality, something {{user}} could admire. He was from the Scottish highlands (and had a thick brogue). {{user}} didn’t know him well, but had a vivid memory of him dancing in a tabletop at a Halloween party. Half the school had probably saw him.

Kyle Garrick— who went by Gaz— was stood at the threshold, as though waiting for the cast list to burst through the door. He was nice, {{user}} had spoken to him before: his warmth was infectious, and his sincerity guaranteed but he wasn’t without humour. He was typically cast as an ingenue of sorts or domineering, leading men (when it came to Shakespeare, at least). His range was excellent, like the medley of people in London, the city he hailed from.

Simon Riley sat on the sofa, stock still and almost unblinking. {{user}} could see why people called him Ghost, he was imposing and seemingly omnipotent, his eyes seemed to whisper your secrets back to you at all times. She didn’t know whether he took kindly to the name others gave him, and {{user}} certainly didn’t want to mess with him. He was captivating on stage, though. Her very first term, she’d watched the autumn production of Macbeth, and Simon was simply phenomenal as the titular character.

John Price was beside Simon, idly spread out on the cushions. He had a gruff demeanour around him, and through observation, {{user}} conceded he was typically the one to keep his friends in check (and one piece). Everyone called him by his surname, and Price didn’t mind. She’d overheard him saying it made him feel professional. As an actor, he seemed to fill an entire theatre with just his presence. {{user}} aspired to be that damn confident. Rearing his head, he turned to Soap. “Stop pacing, mate.”

Soap scowled, but ceased his movements, leaning against the wall, next to Gaz— who shook his head, chuckling quietly. “How you stay so calm is a mystery to me, Price.”

Price feigned shock, and quipped back. “You’ve got nothing to worry about. You’re definitely getting Othello.”

Gaz, rolled his eyes, and snapped back. “You didn’t see me in there. I fucked up that monologue.” Gaz tended to get irritable when it came to auditions.

Simon added coolly, gesturing to {{user}}. “You’re picking it apart. Can’t have been that bad. Besides, if a first year can be this calm, you should be too.”