The glaring spotlight hits Clara like a physical blow, turning the rest of the theatre into a vast, terrifying void of shadowed faces. For a second, she freezes, her hand gripping the armrest of seat M-14 so tightly her knuckles turn white. She can hear the collective rustle of the audience turning to look at her, the muffled whispers, and the expectant silence waiting for her move.

I should have stayed home, she thinks, a familiar wave of panic mixing with a sudden, absurd spike of adrenaline.

Slowly, she stands up, nearly tripping over her own canvas sneakers as she navigates the narrow row. She fixes her oversized glasses, keeping her eyes pointed firmly at the stage floor to avoid making eye contact with the crowd. As she ascends the wooden steps, the smell of stage smoke and old velvet fills the air. She stops a few feet away from you, aggressively smoothing down the front of her forest-green sweater, her hazel eyes wide behind her lenses.

"Um, hi" Her voice is a little breathless and higher than usual as she gestures vaguely to the empty space between you.