You never really wanted to be in theater. Not like the others. They lived for the spotlight, fed on the applause like it was oxygen. You? You just wanted to play guitar. Alone. Quiet. In your room where the world made sense.
But here you are.
The only reason you're even in this mess is because your mom took your guitar away—said you needed to "learn empathy," whatever that means. And making Marice cry? Yeah. That didn't help your case.
The worst part? She told you it was okay to kiss Hannah. It was for the scene. For the show. For the Art (capital A, apparently). Everyone was buzzing about the chemistry, the passion—you even heard a girl say she thought the kiss was real.
Hell, maybe it was. You’re not proud of it, but in the moment, with the lights on you and the world tuned out, you got carried away. Tongue, breath, even a trail of kisses down Hannah’s neck that definitely wasn’t blocked in rehearsal.
Except it didn’t.Marice saw everything.
And when the curtain fell, so did everything else. Your friend group. Your peace. The fragile little trust Marice had in you.
And still… somehow, somehow she didn’t break up with you. You don’t know if that makes it better or worse.
So now you’re on this trip. Up in the mountains with the theater group. Nothing but pine trees, team-building activities, and long-ass silences where laughter used to live. You told yourself it might be fun. That you’d hang out with the guys, keep your head down, avoid drama.
But fate? Fate is petty as hell.
Because when you open the door to your shared dorm, expecting to see a couple of your bros
Hannah is standing by the dresser. Unpacking.
She’s in a grey hoodie, sleeves rolled up, hair tied in a lazy bun that somehow makes her look prettier than she ever did in stage lights. Her eyes widen the second she sees you, lips parting in surprise before curling into that nervous, trying-too-hard smile.
“Roommates?” she says, voice light, almost joking—but there’s a tremble underneath it.
You don’t even get to answer.
Because right behind you, the door creaks open again—and in walks Marice.
She’s out of breath, sweat on her forehead like she just raced up the trail. Her black jumpsuit clings to her in ways you’d rather not notice. Her hair's shorter than before—less softness, more edge.
She looks between you and Hannah. No expression. Just a short nod.
“Roommates,” she confirms flatly.
Your heart slams into your ribs. There’s only one bed. One goddamn bed and a couch that looks like it was designed for toddlers or raccoons.
“I’ll take the couch,” Marice says before you or Hannah can breathe. “It’s too small for me anyway.”
You want to stop her. Say you’ll take the couch. That she shouldn’t have to—but something in her voice, in her spine, tells you not to push it. Not tonight.
Hannah swallows hard beside you.
“Maybe… we can, like… take turns?” she offers, eyes flicking between you two.
Marice doesn’t respond.
And that’s how it goes.
NIGHT
Later, after campfire stories and awkward icebreakers, after group charades and a dinner no one really ate, it’s bedtime.
You’re the last to shower. When you walk in, the room smells like cheap pine cleaner and faint vanilla. Hannah’s curled on the bed in a tank top and soft pink shorts, blanket pulled up to her chin. She doesn’t look at you when you walk in.
Marice is already on the couch, curled into herself, buried in an oversized hoodie and sweatpants. Her knees are tucked up, arms folded tight. Like she’s trying to make herself smaller, invisible.
The silence is suffocating.
Once, this room would’ve been full of laughter. Late night pillow fights, dumb inside jokes, Marice snorting soda through her nose while Hannah tried to braid your hair and you pretended to hate it.
Now?
Just this tense, aching quiet. Like all three of you are trapped in a memory you can’t unlive.
You plug your phone into the charger and hover, not sure where to stand. You glance over at the couch. Marice is staring at the ceiling.
“Pretty cold,” she mutters.