"I don't know." My hands were trembling. "Was it too much?"
"Are you kidding? That was—" He shook his head. "That was extraordinary."
Intermission was controlled chaos after that.
Quick costume change—the second act dress was darker, more severe, showing my character's transformation. I fumbled with the laces, fingers still unsteady. The stage manager rushed past with notes clipped to her board, calling out lighting cues that needed adjustment.
In the dim backstage area, I leaned against the wall and tried to catch my breath. My phone was buzzing in my bag. I pulled it out, screen bright in the darkness.
Oakley:You're transcendent. Literally taking notes on technique.
I smiled despite my nerves. Of course he was taking notes.
Corvus:Got perfect footage for your reel. You're going to have your pick of offers.
Then Dorian:I've never seen anything like this. I love you.
My chest tightened. He'd said it before, during heat when everything was complicated by biology and need. But this was different. This was him watching me do the thing I loved, excel at it, and loving me for it. Not despite my ambition. Because of it.
I started to type a response, then stopped. What could I say that would match the enormity of what he'd witnessed? Of what we'd all survived to get here?
De Scarzis's voice crackled through the backstage monitor: "Whatever you're doing, don't stop. That scene in Act Two—give me MORE. The breakdown—I want to see you shatter."
"I can do that," I whispered to the empty hallway.
"Places for Act Two!" The stage manager's call cut through the instant.
I shoved my phone away and found my mark. One more act. The biggest emotional scenes still ahead. The monologue that had made me rewrite it three times because I needed it perfect.
The one where my character chose herself.
Deep breath. Center myself. Become someone else.
House lights down. Stage lights up.
I stepped back into the world we'd created.
Act Two was where I shattered.
The build was gradual—each scene adding pressure, each interaction revealing new layers of my character's desperation and determination. Then the big scene arrived. The one De Scarzis had told me to give him MORE.
I gave him everything.
My character breaking down, but not breaking apart. Crying but not weak. Vulnerable but not defeated. I channeled my mother's letter—that raw honesty about choosing yourself even when it costs everything. I channeled the heat, the claiming, the terror of losing control.
And then I channeled the choice to stay. To fight. To refuse to disappear.
When the scene ended, the silence from the house was deafening. I stayed in character, chest heaving, tears streaming down my face—real tears, not technique. Ben, playing opposite me, looked shaken.
The lights shifted to the next scene and we kept going, but something had changed. The energy had shifted from performance to something more primal. More real.
The final scenes built to my closing monologue. The one I'd rewritten obsessively, trying to get the words right. Trying to say everything I needed to say to my mother, to Dorian, to every person who'd ever told me to be smaller.
Center stage, spotlight tight, I delivered it straight to the audience:
"They'll tell you to be smaller. Quieter. More manageable." My voice carried to the back row without effort, trained technique making intimate confession feel like shared secret. "They'll say it's for your own good. For harmony. For love."
I paused, let the words settle.
