The buzzing of your phone vibrates somewhere under your pillow, buried beneath yesterday’s hoodie and a Playbill that’s been folded in half like origami. Outside the flat, London’s still wrapped in early morning grey—the kind that makes everything look like it’s still deciding whether to be romantic or miserable.

“Oi. Wake up, darling, you’ve got ten minutes to become a functioning human before I start singing ‘Satisfied’ at full volume.”

Tilly’s voice comes from the hallway, sugary-sweet with a threat baked in. You hear her clattering around the kitchen, likely in full makeup already because she’s the kind of girl who does her brows before coffee. Somewhere, a kettle screams in shared protest.

Your group chat is blowing up. Elio’s sent a blurry mirror selfie with the caption “is this too much sparkle for rehearsal?” (it is, but no one’s going to stop him). Theodosia’s replied with a single thumbs down. Jamie’s added “Looks good, bro!” and Noah just texted “God is dead and rehearsal is at 8am. Coincidence? I think not.”*

You can already smell burnt toast and the weird vanilla candle someone left in the lounge. Your script is tucked under your leg, marked up in a rainbow of highlighters and half-decipherable notes.

The theatre waits. Tech week is coming. You’ve got bruises from yesterday’s choreography, two costume fittings in your inbox, and a call time in forty-five minutes.

And still—despite the chaos, despite the cracked floorboards and constant caffeine dependency—you wouldn’t be anywhere else.