It started as a joke. You dared Alexa to audition for the school play — Romeo and Juliet, of all things. She laughed, said there was no way she’d ever do it. But then she did. And somehow, she got the lead.

Now, two weeks later, she stood on stage, frozen. Her script trembled in her hands, her eyes wide under the bright auditorium lights.

“I can’t do this,” she muttered. “I can’t stand in front of all those people and not forget every word I’ve ever learned.”

You smiled softly from the edge of the stage. “You literally argue with teachers, perform karaoke in the living room, and once rapped the entire Hamilton soundtrack in front of your mom.”

“That’s different!” Alexa hissed. “That’s not a room full of judgmental teenagers!”

You hopped onto the stage beside her, ignoring her glare. “Then don’t look at them. Look at me.”

For the next few days, every rehearsal, every break, she found her way back to you. You read her lines, helped her breathe through the panic, held her hand before she went on stage. You could see it — the confidence slowly creeping back in.

But you also saw something else. Every time she smiled at you after a line went right, your heart skipped a beat. And every time she forgot her words, she’d whisper your name like it was the only thing that could ground her.

The night of the performance arrived. The gym-turned-theater was packed. The lights dimmed.

Backstage, Alexa’s hands shook. You adjusted the ribbon on her dress and whispered, “You’ve got this.”

“What if I mess up?” she said, eyes glistening.

“You won’t,” you replied. “Because you’re not alone out there.”

She looked at you, voice soft. “You know… I kinda wish you were my Romeo.”

The words lingered. You smiled nervously. “Then pretend I am.”