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The theatre was always quiet in the afternoon. The stillness carried a presence, as if the stage held onto the memory of every performer who had stood upon it, leaving fragments of themselves behind with every curtain call. The echoes of applause and laughter, the tears shed, the underlying feelings hidden between the lines of the script. When the lights were dimmed and the auditorium shut, the stories stayed.
Soyeon found comfort in the silence. Alone at the piano, a score lay before her, though it belonged to neither the current production nor any rehearsal on schedule. It was merely a rough draft, she had returned to countless times, its margins crowded with neat annotations, questions and revisions only she would ever understand. A pencil rested between her fingers as she leaned over the keys, meticulously writing, so absorbed that she barely noticed the doors open until they were thrown against the brick wall.
“I swear it wasn’t my fault!” she rushed out, the words tumbling over one after another in a frantic attempt to defend herself before the playwright could even ask a question.
She immediately looked toward the noise.
The athlete stood in the doorway, slightly out of breath, still dressed in her team-issued jersey and matching shorts. Her varsity jacket hung carelessly from her shoulders, one strap of her duffel bag slipping as it gaped half-open, threatening to spill its contents across the floor. A fine sheen of sweat clung to her skin from what had clearly been an unforgiving practice, leaving loose strands of hair plastered to her forehead. Despite the dishevelled state she had arrived in, she carried herself with the same effortless confidence that seemed to follow her everywhere, as though she had never once questioned whether she belonged in any room she entered.
“Coach kept us back late.” She explained. “It wasn’t all my fault. Not entirely.... It was Minnie’s too. Though she would probably tell you otherwise.”
“I’m not sure if you know Minnie that well,” the jock continued, walking closer, down through the aisle, “but you know Miyeon, so you basically know her too, considering they spend like every waking moment together. Then I had to talk to Shu 'cause I missed her around lunch because my stupid math professor gave me such an unfair grade, and then I remembered Soojin told me I had to meet with you here to prepare for the audition.”
“And now I’m here….” The girl finished awkwardly, rubbing the back of her neck.
Soyeon slipped the pencil behind her ear and rose from the bench. Her hands almost disappeared beneath the slightly puffed sleeves of her blouse, a black vest layered neatly over the fabric while her flowing skirt fell neatly over polished leather loafers. The writer’s dark hair was pulled back into a rough ponytail, though a few stray hairs had escaped to frame her face, revealing the countless hours she had spent bent over sheet music and scripts. A worn messenger bag, a familiar sight throughout the hallways, rested beside the stool, overflowing with paper, colourful tabs, and loose pages covered in her careful handwriting.
The player forgot whatever she had been about to say. She just stared. Shamelessly.
“Song Yuqi, I’m assuming.” The girl straightened.
“You would be assuming correctly,” she replied.
“Have you been briefed on what you’ll be performing?”
“Vaguely?”
Soyeon paused. “Meaning?”
“Not at all,” Yuqi admitted, offering a sheepish but unapologetic smile.
A sigh escaped from her lips before she could stop it. She rummaged through the mess of her satchel before pulling a spare script free and holding it out toward the other.
“Read it. Quickly. Your dialogue has already been highlighted. Then we’ll do a run-through.” Her voice remained steady, her attention fixed on the pages rather than the person in front of her.
Yuqi accepted it.
“Don’t worry. I’ll ace it,” She said confidently.
Soyeon simply looked at her.
“That’s not what I asked for.”
The response caught her off guard.
“What?”
“I don’t need perfect,” her gaze steady on her. “I need honest.”
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The rehearsal proved to be more challenging than expected. Yuqi was talented, and that was undeniable. She was the star player of their university, the captain everyone looked up to, the person who seemed to know everyone and be liked by everyone in return. Her classmates admired her, teachers praised her, and she had a habit of excelling in nearly everything she tried. It was almost frustrating how naturally everything seemed to come to her.
She understood timing, even if their introduction had suggested otherwise. She could memorise plays, follow directions and learn movements faster than most, but acting demanded something different.
“You’re holding back,” Soyeon observed.
Yuqi looked up at her from her script. “I’m not.”
“You are,” the writer insisted.
“I’m literally standing here confessing my feelings,” she declared.
Her expression remained unchanged. “You’re reciting words.”
“Again,” she instructed.
Yuqi groaned, letting the script fall slightly in her hands. “You enjoy making me suffer.”
“I enjoy making you better,” Soyeon countered.
The jock glanced at her. “That sounded almost like a compliment.”
“It wasn’t,” she dismissed.
“It sounded like one,” the other shrugged, unfazed by the pointed tone.
Soyeon turned away, refusing to give her the satisfaction of a reaction, but Yuqi’s smile only grew.
“You can move closer, you know,” she added, a hint of amusement slipping into her voice.
The girl glanced back at the deliberate space she had maintained between them, disguised as nothing more than careful attention to staging.
“I’m directing,” she replied flatly.
“You’re avoiding,” Yuqi challenged.
“I’m not,” the playwright denied.
“You are,” the athlete pressed.
“How am I supposed to practice with a scene partner who's more interested in blocking me than acting with me?” she teased.
Soyeon opened her mouth to argue, but no words came. Yuqi stepped closer.
“I won’t bite…” The girl paused; the corner of her mouth curved into a smirk. “Unless you ask.”
She rolled her eyes, though she couldn’t stop the small smile tugging at her lips. For someone who claimed not to understand theatre, the other certainly knew how to deliver a line.
“Is that supposed to reassure me?” she questioned, raising an eyebrow.
“Maybe,” she replied, far too casually.
The answer earned an unimpressed expression. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet you’re still helping me,” she pointed out.
She shook her head, fighting back a scoff at the comment. This time, the reaction didn’t come with the usual retreat. Instead, when she returned to her mark, she did so with less distance than before. Neither acknowledged the change. There was no need to.
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They practised the monologue again. And again. Each time, Soyeon pushed harder, adjusting pacing, the smallest shifts in expression. She stopped her mid-line to correct a gesture or reshape the way a sentence landed. Nothing in the performance was left untouched. Every stop, every breath, every step had a purpose.
“C’mon,” Yuqi said after another attempt, dropping the script at her side. “Throw me a bone here.”
“You want me to make it easier?”
“No.” She refused without hesitation. Her eyes stared down at the page before finding hers again. “I want you to tell me what I’m doing wrong.”
There was usually a joke. A challenge. Some clever remark to ease the moment into something lighter, but the athlete did not hide behind her admission. Soyeon studied her carefully, searching for any sign that she was trying to deflect, before stepping forward.
“You don’t understand the scene.”
Yuqi’s expression shifted, her brows pulled together at her words.
“You’re afraid.”
The accusation made her pause momentarily. She blinked, staring back at her.
“I’m not.”
Soyeon didn’t answer immediately. She just watched her, waiting.
“You are.”
The athlete let out a quiet laugh, as if the suggestion itself was ridiculous. “I’m not afraid of anything.”
Her stage partner tilted her head, examining her with the same focus she applied to every part of the performance.
“That’s exactly what someone afraid would say,” she replied, a knowing edge in her voice.
“You’re saying the words,” Soyeon told her, standing across the stage, “But you’re not actually feeling them.”
“You look like you’re preparing to win a game.”
Yuqi let out a small huff, folding her arms across her chest.
“Is that bad?”
“For theatre? Yes.”
The response was met with a frown.
Soyeon retrieved her script from the piano’s ledge, flipping back to the marked sheets and holding it open between them.
“Helena isn’t trying to prove she deserves Demetrius’ love. She’s asking for it,” she explained. “She isn’t challenging him. She isn’t trying to win against him. There is no competition here. No opponent to defeat. She is giving herself over completely.”
Yuqi looked down at the pages in her hands, the confidence she wore almost like a uniform beginning to slip away.
“We’ll try again,” Soyeon urged, her voice softer than before.
The two returned to their marks.
“Do I entice you? Do I speak you fair?” the writer began, stepping into the rhythm of the scene despite her preference to remain behind the production. The athlete found herself staring in awe. She had seen her analyse scenes, shape performances, and guide her through emotions, but seeing her embody the character was something else entirely. “Or rather do I not, in plainest truth, tell you I do not, nor cannot, love you?”
“And even for that do I love you the more,” Yuqi confessed, stepping further onto the stage. “I am your spaniel, and, Demetrius, the more you beat me, I will fawn on you.” Her voice carried the weight of the character’s devotion, not as a plea for victory, but as an act of complete surrender.
“Use me but as your spaniel: spurn me, strike me, neglect me, lose me;” she said in desperation. “Only give me leave, unworthy as I am, to follow you.”
The script lowered in her hand, no longer focusing on the lines but the emotions behind the delivery.
“What worse place can I beg in your love–” Yuqi paused, letting the line breathe, “and yet a place of high respect with me – than to be used…” She let the final words linger before finishing, “as you use your dog?”
For once, in the countless runthroughs they did that afternoon, Soyeon didn’t offer correction. She didn’t point out a movement out of place or suggest a different expression. She simply looked at her.
“That,” the playwright said eventually, “was better.”
Yuqi looked almost offended by the praise. “Better?” she asked, disbelief evident in her voice.
“Much.”
“I just gave you my emotional breakdown,” she protested.
“And it was good,” she commended.
The jock narrowed her eyes slightly, already anticipating the criticism. “I sense there’s a ‘but’ coming.” A small smile appeared upon the face of the other.
“But you’re still holding back,” Soyeon remarked.
Yuqi started again. She stopped pretending and focused, no longer acting as if she had something to prove. She took the director’s notes and applied them as best as she could, letting the scene envelope her. Her voice changed. She remembered her cues. The arrogance disappeared. The performance shifted into something real.
“How was I?” Yuqi asked, uncertainty creeping into the question.
“You can do better than that, Song Yuqi,” she replied, her tone carrying a quiet challenge.
She moved closer until she was standing directly in front of her. Then reached up, placing a hand lightly against the athlete’s shoulder, keeping her there for just a moment longer than necessary. It was still a correction, an instruction. She went still under her touch.
“You understand wanting someone,” Soyeon said, “But you don’t understand what it feels like to wonder if they’ll ever want you back.”
“You’re different when you’re not trying to impress everyone,” she whispered.
Yuqi looked at her, caught by her words. “So are you.”
For the first time since she’d barged through the entrance, the silence that followed was different from the ones that filled their rehearsal. Neither rushed to break it, not trusting themselves to say anything else.
Soyeon looked away first. “You don’t know me.”
“What if I want to?” Yuqi asked, her voice gentle but certain.
The simplicity of the answer unsettled her. She was used to people wanting what she could create, her ideas, the talent, the direction, the finished product everyone admired. Not the person behind all of it.
“You shouldn’t,” Soyeon said, quiet but firm.
The athlete held her gaze “Why?”
The question stayed between them, unanswered. The writer returned to her spot, retreating into the only role she knew how to play.
“Again,” she said, already reaching for the script. “From the beginning.”