"I miss you," I whisper again.
His voice drops, low, sincere. "I know. I miss you so much, it's stupid."
And we just stay like that — breathing, watching each other, letting the distance feel a little smaller.
CHAPTER fifty-five
CAROLINE
Backstage is absolute chaos — the loud kind, the buzzing kind, the kind that feels electric under your skin.
Costumes crowd the rolling racks, tulle and velvet and sequins all mashed together like a technicolor forest. Someone's curling iron is sizzling. Somebody else is complaining about their fake beard slipping off. Half the cast is reciting lines for the millionth time, pacing like caffeinated zombies, while the other half is screaming reminders at each other even though no one is listening.
And over all of it is Professor Callahan — dressed like sheownsBroadway. She's wearing a floor-length black gown with dramatic sleeves, hair piled high, sparkly earrings shaped like tiny opera masks, and a velvet shawl tossed over one shoulder like she's about to perform an aria instead of supervise a capstone.
"Kyle!" she snaps, pointing at him with a clipboard like it's a weapon. "If you forget your cue one more time, I swear on Shakespeare's ghost I will recast your role in the next ninety seconds!"
Kyle, already sweating in his medieval tunic, mutters, "It's three lines," under his breath.
"And yet you forgettwoof them," Callahan fires back before sweeping away like a Victorian storm cloud.
Everyone is dressed and ready — corsets, crowns, embroidered jackets, glittering capes, tights, boots, wigs, swords, fake jewels. It looks like a Renaissance fair exploded.
I slip between bodies until I reach the side curtain, lifting it just enough to peek out into the auditorium.
The seats are filling fast.
Parents, friends, professors, strangers — all chatting, settling in, flipping through programs. My eyes scan the assigned family section until I spot them:
Mom and Dad, already waving at someone.
Charlene, sitting right beside Mom, talking animatedly with her hands.
And next to her, Sam, bright and bubbly, dressed nicely, hair curled, makeup soft.
All four of them look relaxed. Happy. Excited.
I wish I felt the same.
I scan the aisles again... looking... searching...
But no Zach. Not yet.
It's only a few minutes after six — his team is probably still clearing the rink, showering, grabbing food. But God, I want to see him before curtain. He always knows exactly what to say to calm me down. He always finds me, even in the worst backstage chaos.
I let the curtain fall back into place and exhale.
My vanity is waiting for me — bulbs warm, mirror fogged slightly from the heat of the room. I settle onto the stool, smoothing my skirt automatically.
My Clara costume is beautiful — a pale, soft-blue dress that falls just past my knees, with delicate lace trimming the sleeves and bodice. The fabric has a faint shimmer under the backstage lights, the kind that makes it look almost ethereal.
My hair is half-up, curled gently, tied with a satin ribbon that matches the dress. Doll shoes on my feet. Light blush, rosy lips, a soft glow on my cheeks.
I actually... look pretty.
I barely have time to admire myself before Adam drops into the seat beside me.
He's in full Nutcracker uniform — navy and gold jacket, cuffs embroidered, white pants, boots polished, hair styled perfectly. His huge wooden Nutcracker head sits on the vanity between us like an extra cast member.
