He's been the one doing all the work. Finding me between blocking notes and costume changes. Showing up at odd hours just to check on me. Dropping off snacks and full meals when he knew I wouldn't have time to eat.
He even stops by during his tiny slivers of free time — right before class, right after practice — just to see me. Even if it's only for a minute. Even if all we could manage was a quick hug in a hallway crowded with tech students carrying ladders.
He makes time.
He always makes time.
And it only makes me fall in love with him even more. Having him in my corner during this nightmare of a week has been my salvation. Even though I haven't slept more than four hours a night since last Sunday and I'm one minor catastrophe away from screaming and walking off the set forever, he reminds me why I'm here.
That despite the chaos, despite the exhaustion, despite my left eye twitching like it's sending desperate Morse code signals—this is still my dream. My passion. My everything.
Hell week in theater is exactly that: hell. But it's my hell, the one I chose, the one I'd choose again. Because when that curtain finally rises, there's a kind of magic you can't find anywhere else—messy, frantic, and fueled by pure adrenaline. The kind that makes you feel more alive than you've ever felt before.
A magic that only makes sense to people who've lived through this kind of chaos.
The kind that sneaks up on you in the split second before the lights go up, when your heart is pounding against your ribs and the whole cast is holding their breath like a single organism.
The kind you feel in your bones when the first cue lands perfectly, when the audience leans forward, when the energy in the room shifts and suddenly—miraculously—every mistake, every meltdown, every sleepless night becomes worth it.
It's the kind of magic that happens when a dozen people who've been half-delirious all week somehow snap into perfect rhythm the moment it matters.
Where the stage stops being wood and paint and props, and becomes a world you created.
Where your blood is buzzing with nerves and joy and terror all at once, and you've never felt more alive, more certain, moreyou.
That magic.
The one hell week tries to beat out of you... and the one that always, always brings you back.
And honestly? How could I not love him more when he's the one who remembers this for me. When he sees me drowning in the chaos and somehow knows exactly which words to pull me back with. When he gets this part of me—the part I don't even know how to explain—down to its bones.
I swear, sometimes it feels like he knows my heart better than I do.
Ugh. Annoying. I hate how perfect he is—like, hello? Could he stop giving every girl within a five-mile radius another reason to daydream about him?
Well, too bad for them. He's mine. All mine. I love him so much it's disgusting. I might actually need therapy.
I'm mid-spiral, fully lost in my Zach Appreciation Fantasy Bubble™, when Terrence's voice, our acting director, slices through it like a dull butter knife to the brain.
He claps his hands once—loud, sharp, dramatic.
"Alright!" he calls out from the center of the stage. "Let's run the throne room sequence again. From the top. And somebody please remind Marcus he is not, in fact, a literal rodent."
The bubble pops.
Reality returns.
And I'm yanked right back into Hell Week.
Marcus—currently wearing fake whiskers and a crown made of tinfoil and crushed rhinestones—raises both hands. "Method acting, Terrence!"
Terrence massages his temple. "Marcus, your method acting is giving me a migraine."
Professor Callahan chuckles from the back row. "Let the kid commit, Terrence. At this point, commitment is all we have left."
Lucy is flipping rapidly through her binder, muttering rewrites to Katie, who is scribbling them down like a court stenographer. Cami and Suzy are adjusting props. Kyle is testing the spotlight again because the bulb keeps flickering like it wants to unionize.
And me?
