Chapter 4:
The auditorium lights were dimmed, casting long shadows across the rehearsal stage. Mr. Donovan Kessler stood off to the side with his arms folded, silently observing the cast.
"Act Two, Scene Two," he said. "Balcony. No blocking yet. Just voices. Feel the weight of the words."
Elias stood downstage, script in hand, jaw tight. His lines were memorized—of course they were—but something about Rowan's presence threw him off balance.
Rowan stood above him on a makeshift balcony, barefoot in beat-up Converse, his hair half tucked behind one ear. He didn't need the script. He never seemed to. His eyes flicked to Elias's, soft but steady.
"Wilt thou leave me so unsatisfied?" Elias began, voice even.
"What satisfaction canst thou have tonight?" Rowan returned, calm and quiet, like Juliet was truly asking—truly unsure.
It was jarring. Intimate. Elias took half a step back, heart thudding harder than it should have.
Camila Reyes sat in the front row of the dark theater with her sketchpad balanced on one knee. She was sketching Rowan's frame on the balcony, pretending not to watch Elias squirm.
Marley Evans, cross-legged beside her, whispered, "Is it just me or is this, like… gay gay?"
Camila didn't look up. "It's Shakespeare. It's always gay."
Elias heard the whisper, and his ears burned. He missed his next cue.
Rowan waited. "You okay?" he asked quietly, but it echoed like a dare.
Elias cleared his throat. "Yeah. Sorry. Lost the line."
"You didn't lose the line," Mr. Kessler called. "You lost the moment. Let's run it again."
Theo Kingston, perched stiffly behind the piano, muttered something under his breath. He'd been forced to sight-read for rehearsal even though no one had asked for live accompaniment. He wasn't thrilled about Elias faltering.
They started over. Rowan softened his Juliet further this time—vulnerable, hopeful, real.
Elias tried to match it. But his voice cracked—barely noticeable, but he felt it like a scream.
Mr. Kessler finally stepped forward. "Okay. Good enough for today. Let's break here."
Relief swept the stage like a wave.
As the others trickled out, Camila packed up her pencils, but paused near Elias.
"You were fine," she said. "Too fine. Romeo's not a saint—he's a mess. Maybe let him be a mess."
Elias blinked at her. Camila Reyes never offered unsolicited advice.
Before he could answer, she was gone.
Outside the theater, the air was cool. Elias lingered by the door, scrolling mindlessly through his phone. The youth group thread was active again. They were planning the next purity weekend.
Marco Moreno had already texted him that morning:
> Don't forget to lead prayer this Sunday. Pastor Lyle wants you front and center.
Elias hadn't replied. He hadn't told his parents about the new casting yet.
He looked up to see Jonah Park crouched near the side steps, photographing light pooling on the pavement.
"Don't you get tired of taking pictures of nothing?" Elias asked, not unkindly.
Jonah shrugged. "Sometimes the empty stuff's the clearest."
They stood in silence.
Jonah finally added, "You don't owe anyone your panic."
Elias turned. "What?"
Jonah looked at him fully now. "Whatever that was up there—it wasn't about the scene. Just… remember no one has the right to make you perform offstage too."
Elias didn't know how to respond. Jonah nodded once, then disappeared behind the gym.
That night, Elias sat at the dinner table in his usual silence. His father, Marco, was discussing Pastor Lyle's upcoming sermon—something about the danger of moral compromise.
Lucía Moreno nodded along, offering occasional affirmations. "Mmm. Yes. It's a good reminder for our young people."
Elias focused on his food.
"I hope," Marco said suddenly, "you'll set an example this weekend. People are watching."
Elias forced a smile. "Of course."
He excused himself early.
Later, in the dim light of his room, Elias opened his journal. He flipped to a blank page.
He stared for a long time before writing:
Today I played Romeo.
But Juliet looked at me like he saw something real.
He paused.
And I didn't know how to look back.
He closed the journal before he could second guess himself.
Outside, the moonlight spilled in through the window—soft, silent, and impossibly bright.