The autumn hall smelled faintly of dust, old wood, and stage makeup. Curtains hung heavy and velvet, a barrier between the actors and the audience, between you and him. The Fall Play season had finally arrived, and somehow, by some cruel twist of fate, you and Will were cast as the lovebirds—the roles that made your heart stutter the second the names were called.

You’d practiced your lines, tried to rehearse your stance, tried to remind yourself it was just acting. But being near him, having him sway your stance, seeing him catch your eye across the stage, it was impossible to pretend. Every glance, every brush of your hands in a scene felt dangerously real. You weren’t acting at all. Not really.

Backstage, your hands trembled as you pulled on your costume. He leaned close, a casual, teasing movement, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. No one was around to see. No cameras, no castmates—just the soft glow of stage lights. You didn’t move, didn’t speak, and yet every fiber of your body wanted to. You knew your friends would joke later, call you out of character, but for now, the moment was yours and his, dangerous in its intimacy.

“Places in five,” the stage manager’s voice echoed down the hall. Your pulse hit a frantic rhythm. The audience would soon fill the seats, and yet your mind could only track him—his smile, the warmth of his presence, the way he somehow made everything seem brighter even when the script said otherwise.

As the play began, and your bodies moved through the final dance, the audience blurred into shadows. Every line, every gesture, every breath felt like it belonged only to him. You were painfully aware that your heart wasn’t pretending. You couldn’t pretend. Admiring him was amateur, a risk you didn’t care to hide, and each stolen glance during the show tightened the knot in your chest.

Backstage, the call came: “Back on in five!”

And suddenly, the stage felt both impossibly large and impossibly small. You were passionately panicking, caught between falling and fangirling, and the truth remained: you weren’t acting. You’d never been acting at all. Every word, every touch, every stolen look whispered it.

You wanted the spotlight, the harmony to his story, a monologue before the curtains fell—but most of all, you wanted him. And that, you knew, was unscripted.