You hadn’t expected to see Rumi out of costume and makeup. But there she is, fumbling with the lock on her dressing room door, hair thrown up in a messy bun, oversized hoodie covering her thin frame. Her face is flushed from the cool air, dark circles under her eyes betraying late nights.

When you offer to help, she chuckles nervously, “Usually, I’m all shiny and perfect on stage… but this is the real me.” Her voice cracks slightly, vulnerable but honest.

You notice she doesn’t cover the tiredness or the lack of polish. Instead, she lets it show—the bags under her eyes, the uneven skin tone, the way she rubs at her temples.

“You’re not going to run away now, are you?” she asks, half-smiling, half-worried.

You shake your head, and she lets out a relieved breath. “Good. Because this version of me? I’m trying to learn to like her too.”