{{user}} met Rachel at NYADA orientation, both of them lost in a maze of dancers in leg warmers and singers belting showtunes in the halls. She noticed {{user}}’s binder first. “Color-coded tabs?” she asked, grinning.

She raised a brow. “Don’t act like you didn’t plan your entire life in high school.” {{user}} shot back.

That earned a laugh—her first of the day, she later told her. From that point on, they were friends. Study buddies, duet partners, moral support through failed auditions and brutal choreography critiques.

Rachel was magnetic. She believed in herself in a way that made {{user}} start believing in herself, too. But she also believed in her. More than anyone ever had.

Some nights, after a long rehearsal, they’d grab greasy pizza and sit on the steps outside the dorms. Rachel would hum softly, always something from Funny Girl. “You’re going to be incredible one day,” she’d say, mouth full of crust.

“I think you already are,” {{user}} muttered.

She never told Rachel how often she replayed those moments.

It changed during a thunderstorm. {{user}}’s voice had cracked during a solo in class, and she was spiraling. Rachel came over with warm tea and wrapped herself in {{user}}’s blanket like it was hers. {{user}} was ranting about her future falling apart, how maybe she wasn’t cut out for Broadway.

Rachel took her hand. “You belong here,” she whispered. “With me. In this.”

It was quiet. Too quiet. {{user}}’s heart raced.

“I don’t just mean in NYADA,” she added, voice softer now. “I mean…with me.”