Everything I don't have.
"But you have something she doesn't," Maya continues, reading my expression. "You have hunger. Real hunger. Charlotte wants this role because it's expected. You need it."
The distinction lands hard. Because she's right. For Charlotte, this is another line on an already impressive resume. For me, it's proof I belong here. Proof the scholarship wasn't charity. Proof I can compete with people who've had every advantage.
We chat about the play, about casting predictions, about whether De Scarzis will be merciful or sadistic in her choices. It's normal. Comfortable. Exactly what I need to keep from spiraling about Ben.
Until he walks in.
He looks tired. Dark circles under his eyes, hair not quite as carefully styled as usual. He signs in—eighteenth, I note—and his eyes sweep the room.
They land on me.
For a stretch, we stare at each other. Three days of avoidance crystallizing into one loaded look.
Then someone calls his name—another student from our Scene Study class—and the break happens. He turns away, joining a different group on the opposite side of the room.
Message received.
"Okay," Maya says quietly. "What happened between you two?"
"Nothing."
"That was not a 'nothing' look. That was a 'something very complicated' look."
"We're scene partners. It's... professional tension."
"Uh-huh." She doesn't believe me, but mercifully drops it. "Well, good luck with your professional tension."
The door to Studio 3B opens and Professor De Scarzis emerges, clipboard in hand. "All right, people. First five, comewith me. Everyone else, stay quiet and stay warmed up. We're running this efficiently."
The first group files in. The rest of us settle into the waiting.
This is going to be a long afternoon.
Bythetimemyname is called, I've watched twelve students go in and come out looking various degrees of shell-shocked.
Charlotte went in the last group. Came out looking satisfied. Confident.
Ben's in my group.
Of course he is.
We file into the studio where De Scarzis sits behind a table, two other faculty members flanking her. The space feels smaller than usual, more intimate. Five chairs are lined up against one wall for those waiting their turn.
"Levine, you're first. Center stage."
I take my position, finding my light. Breathe. Focus. Become Nina.
The words come automatically. Nina's final monologue about faith and endurance, about bearing crosses and finding meaning in suffering. About loving someone who destroyed you and somehow surviving it.
I'm not acting. I'm confessing.
Every word is about the pack. About being claimed against my will. About learning to endure. About finding faith when faith seems impossible.
When I finish, there's a beat of silence.
"Thank you, Ms. Levine," De Scarzis says, her expression unreadable but her pen moving rapidly across her notes. "Morrison, you're next."
