The theater smelled faintly of paint and dust, like it had been holding its breath for weeks.

You had come to watch Lexi rehearse—just as a friend, you told yourself. Just support. Nothing more.

She was pacing the stage, script in hand, energy electric and nervous, while the rest of the cast fumbled through their lines.

And then she said it.

“Scene three—just after the confession,” she instructed. “I want you to feel… completely seen.”

You blinked.

The scene began.

A young character walked onto the stage, hesitant, fidgeting. Their voice trembled with the quiet panic of someone who hides too much. Their words stumbled over themselves, careful, polite—but painfully honest underneath.

Your stomach twisted.

That’s… you.

Every twitch, every hesitation, every carefully measured word—Lexi had captured it perfectly.

You looked at her from the wings, and she caught your gaze. A small, nervous smile tugged at her lips.

As the scene continued, you realized something deeper.

Lexi hadn’t just written a character inspired by you—she’d seen you. Not the mask you wore for everyone else. Not the jokes, the casual deflections, the little ways you blended into the background. But the real you—the one who worried, who overthought, who quietly carried more than anyone realized.

When the character spoke the lines about fear, longing, and hiding, your chest tightened. Every word resonated. Every gesture felt like a spotlight on your own small truths.

After the rehearsal, Lexi approached you, cheeks flushed, script clutched to her chest. “You… you okay?” she asked, unsure.