“I’m sure you delivered exactly that.”
“I hope so.” Her voice is soft—that sweet, vulnerable sound that nestles deep into my soul. “It felt a little too honest, like I was naked up on stage.”
“Sounds brave.”
Silence stretches between us for a few beats. It’s not uncomfortable; we’re both simply lost in our own thoughts. The bushland blurs past the window, all grey-greens and dusty golds, and she sits there, her fingers twisting around the hem of her hoodie.
“Do you want to hear some of it?”
“If you’d like me to, I’d be honoured.”
Rather than recite it word-for-word, she talks through it in a casual but thoughtful way. No performance. No big gestures.
The air between us shifts. Not tense, just heavier.
I listen without interrupting, getting lost in her world.
She’s brave and beautiful, and carries more than she lets on, all wrapped up in that extraverted, outgoing persona she wears like armour. Every now and then, like in this moment, she lets the mask slip, and it gives me a glimpse of the real Leni and the way she wants to be seen. How shewants to stop pretending she doesn’t care when she actually does.
“It’s beautiful,” I tell her honestly, when she’s finished.
She offers me a shy smile. “Thank you.”
“How was it received?”
“Good, I think.”
“How did the rest of their monologues go?”
Leni regales me with behind-the-scenes stories about her classmates, lifting the mood. From the guy who based his scene onThe Bachelorette, to the girl who faked an onstage faint for ‘creative effect’, she shares her theory with me that most theatre students are either emotionally unstable, heartbreakingly talented, or both.
“Which category do you fit into, little devil?” I ask, my tone full of amusement.
She shrugs as if it’s obvious. “Both, of course.”
I can’t fight the grin tugging on my lips. “Of course.”
Leni’s quick-witted and funny. Naturally chaotic and bright, easily slipping between sarcasm and sincerity without warning. I love all the different facets of her, and how they complement each other to turn her into this enchanting enigma.
She asks about the game, about Coleridge, and how I think we’ll go. I tell her I’m quietly confident, provided our centre back and goalkeeper get over whatever it is that has them at each other’s throats every other second, and I’m looking forward to seeing how the players respond to Andy taking over as head coach.
She frowns, lost in contemplation.
I reach over and squeeze her thigh.
“What’s going on in that head of yours, little devil?”
“You love coaching, right?”
I smile. “Yeah, I do.”
“So, why are you walking away?”
Releasing a weighted sigh, I shrug. “It’s time for new experiences.”
When I glance at her, she’s biting her bottom lip, and I’m tempted to lean over and trace my tongue over the indented flesh.
“It’s not because of me?”
