But the problem is... I have no idea how to start that conversation. How do you casually say,"Hey, so, can I be your girlfriend so I can legally climb you like a tree?"
A small, logical part of my brain chimes in—Caroline, it's 2025. Women don't wait for the guy to ask anymore. Be bold. Be modern. Be the change.
Yeah, well, tell that to my 1950s-coded panic every time I eventhinkabout asking him. Because I know exactly how it'd go,
I'd open my mouth to say"Will you be my boyfriend?"and somehow it'd come out as"Will you—uh—pass the salt?"
Modern woman my ass.
I let out a long, dramatic sigh.
"I guess I'll just have to wait for him toofficiallyask me to be his girlfriend," I mumble, staring at the ceiling like it personally offended me. "But when will that be, dammit?"
If patience is a virtue, then I'm about three business days away from losing mine permanently.
My alarm goes off, slicing through my overthinking session with that obnoxious default ringtone that could wake the dead.
I grab my phone from the nightstand and smack the screen to shut it up. Two p.m. Great. I set it so I wouldn't accidentally napthrough the afternoon, but apparently, daydreaming about my nonexistent relationship title counts as rest now.
Rehearsal's in half an hour. I don't need to do much else—I already showered and got ready an hour ago. I've just been lying here, staring at the ceiling, waiting for time to move faster.
With a groan, I finally get up. My body instantly protests, heavy from all the back-to-back rehearsals—drama, dance, rinse, repeat. Every muscle feels like it's been personally betrayed.
But hey, I wanted this role. I fought for it.
So no complaining.
I inhale deeply, square my shoulders, and exhale through my nose like I'm about to go to war instead of rehearsal. "Come on, Caroline," I mutter to myself. "Stars don't whine, they shine."
Grabbing my bag, I head out the door—aching, tired, but still moving.
The Mainstage Rehearsal Hall hums with the kind of chaos that only happens when everyone's running on caffeine, adrenaline, and the fear of Professor Callahan.
The air is thick with the smell of sweat, paint, and stress.
Two hours in, and we'restilltrying to perfect the blocking for the fight scene. You'd think after four weeks we'd have figured out how to not stab each other with prop swords—but apparently not.
Onstage, I'm standing opposite Marcus, who's decked out in his Mouse King armor—foam sword raised, cape slightly crooked—while Adam, our valiant Nutcracker, adjusts his fake crown like he's regretting all his life choices that led him here.
Around us, half the class plays the Mouse King's army and the other half acts as royal guards. There's a lot of tripping, shouting, and fake dying.
Down front, Professor Callahan stands with her clipboard, the unspoken ruler of this tiny kingdom.
Beside her, Lucy, Katie, and a few others who don't have parts in this scene are slouched in the front row seats, whispering between notes.
"Stop, stop, stop!" Callahan's voice slices through the chaos.
"Caroline—your stance. You're turning too far upstage. The audience can't see your face."
I lower my prop sword, panting. "If I twirl this thing one more time, I'm going to stab myself instead of the Mouse King."
Adam chuckles beside me, voice low enough for only me to hear. "Please don't. I'm still recovering from your accidental jab last week."
I roll my eyes. "You didn't even bleed that much."
"Eyes front!" Professor Callahan barks, smacking her pen against the clipboard. "Let's go again. Marcus, when you lunge, give Clara space. You're crowding her mark."
Marcus, ever the drama king, salutes her with his sword. "Got it, Professor."
