The theater was empty. The seats were dark shadows, the stage faintly illuminated by a single overhead light, and the smell of old wood and dust hung in the air.

Lexi was on her knees, straightening a prop, her hair falling into her eyes. You had been helping her rehearse lines for hours, but now the world outside seemed to have fallen away.

“You’re still reading that part wrong,” she muttered, glancing at you over her shoulder, but her voice lacked its usual edge.

“You’re just tired,” you said softly, stepping closer. “We can take a break.”

She shook her head. “No. I… I need to get this right.”

Hours passed.

Lights dimmed further, and the echoes of your voices became intimate whispers in the empty theater. Scene after scene, line after line—you both laughed, corrected each other, debated motivations.

Then, Lexi froze mid-sentence.

“Why do you care so much about this?” she asked quietly. Her voice was low, vulnerable—nothing like the confident, composed Lexi you usually saw.

You blinked. “Because it’s important to you. And… because you matter.”

Her eyes softened, and for a moment she just stared at you, unguarded. “I feel like… everything I write is just screaming into the void,” she confessed. “And no one hears it. No one really hears it. Except you.”

You stepped closer, careful not to crowd her. “I hear it. Every word.”

Her lips trembled into a small, almost-shy smile. “You always make it sound so… simple.”