Noelle’s POV:

  I've been wiping the same spot on the counter for two minutes.

  "Earth to Noelle." Marcus waves a hand in front of my face. His sleeve almost brushes my nose. "Are you planning on buffing a hole straight through to China?"

  I step back and my shoulders tense. "Sorry."

  "No need to apologize," he says, but his expression shifts. It's that familiar mix of confusion and pity that I've been getting for months now. "Just making sure you're still with us."

  "I'm fine," I say. It's my default response these days.

  "Hey, you know Emily's birthday thing is tomorrow, right?" Marcus says.

  My hand freezes mid-reach. "Yeah."

  "Are you coming? She really wants you there."

  Does she? I haven't spoken to Emily outside of shift changes in weeks. But there's something earnest in Marcus's voice that makes my chest tighten.

  "I'll try," I say, knowing I probably won't

  "Last call, folks," Aiden, another coworker, announces to our remaining customers. His voice strains to be cheerful.

  My phone vibrates in my apron pocket. It's an email from Deer Lake Conservatory with a reminder that the application videos are due in three days.

  Three days to convince strangers I'm worth taking a chance on.

  I catch a glimpse of the staff bulletin board. Pinned among the schedules and health department certificate is a faded flyer for my freshman year's theater production.

  The memory hits unexpectedly. I feel the rush of standing on stage, becoming someone else entirely, the applause washing over me like a cleansing rain.

  I was just…alive.

  Twenty minutes later, I'm sliding my key card into the library's side entrance. Study room 118 is small, but it has what I need: privacy. I drop my overstuffed backpack onto the table and begin setting up. I unload a ring light, laptop, a change of clothes, and a notebook with half-baked thoughts. The mess spills across the surface.

  My phone vibrates against the table. My mother's calling me three minutes early. I shouldn't be surprised.

  I take a deep breath and answer.

  "Hi, Mom."

  "Noelle." Her voice is crisp, even through the phone. "Have you written your statement yet?"

  I glance at my notebook and its pages of crossed-out attempts. "I'm working on it."

  "Then work harder." I can picture her drumming her fingers impatiently. "This isn't just a program. It's your future.."

  "I know that." My voice comes out weak.

  "Do you? Because if you did, you'd have your statement written."

  I close my eyes and count to five in my head.

  "I have drafts, okay." I suck in a breath. "They're just not good enough."

  "Send what you have. I'll tell you what's good…What are you wearing?"

  "The navy blouse and black pants."

  "Good. Have you practiced what you're going to say?"

  "Yes."

  "Out loud? To the camera?"

  "To the mirror."

  "Don't do that thing where you keep tucking your hair. It makes you look nervous."

  I realize I'm doing that exact thing right now and drop my hand to my lap. "I won't."

  "And remember to breathe from your diaphragm, not your chest. Your voice gets thin when you're anxious."

  "I remember."

  "Have you thought about what you'll say about your gap?"

  We usually avoid the topic: why I haven't been in any school production in over a year.

  "I'm focusing on why I want to attend Deer Lake, not that. Plus, I've been doing community theater."

  "Community theater is for talentless hacks. And I'm bringing it up because they will ask."

  She sighs heavily with disappointment. "You can't just kick it down the road."

  "I just don't see the point of bringing it up until they do."

  "Fine." She pauses. "Do you want to run through it once for me now?"

  I look at my reflection in the mirror. I'm not ready. But I never will be if I keep stalling.

  "Actually, I think I'm ready."

  The silence stretches between us. Finally, she says, "No one is going to sit there and give you permission to be an actor. You either have it or you don't."

  "I'll call you tomorrow," I say instead of arguing. "After I've submitted it."

  There's another pause. "Alright. Remember what I always say–"

  "If you're not going to be the best, don't bother trying." I finish for her.

  "That's right," she says, her voice is softer.

  After we hang up, I stare at the blank wall where my video will frame me. Clean slate.

  I open my laptop and pull up the application questions again. "Why Deer Lake Conservatory? Tell us what drives your passion for performance."

  This book's true home is on another platform. Check it out there for the real experience.

  What drives me? The need to be someone else. The desire to shed my skin. The hope that somewhere, in being other people, I might find a version of myself that's worth keeping.

  I stand up and smooth my hands down my blouse. I take deep breaths in from the diaphragm like my mother taught me.

  The library's clock ticks loudly on the wall. 10:15 PM.

  My fingers hover over the record button. I've done this before, started and stopped a dozen practice recordings. Each one seemed worse than the list. They were too stiff. Too rehearsed. Too desperate.

  Just press the damn button.

  I click, and the red recording indicator light appears.

  "Hi, I'm Noelle Laken, and I'm applying to Deer Lake Conservatory's screen acting program." My voice is higher than normal, and the forced cheerfulness makes me cringe.

  I stop the recording. Delete. Start again. Too flat. The third time sounds like I'm reading from a resume. Delete, delete, delete.

  The clock reads 10:22. I'm wasting time. I close my eyes for a moment and try to center myself. What would I say if I wasn't being recorded? If I was just talking to a person who actually wanted to know my answer?

  I click record again, but this time I don't look directly at the camera. Instead, I focus just above it and imagine that a person is sitting there, ready to listen.

  "Acting saved me," I begin. "I didn't expect it to. It had always just been a fun hobby."

  I pause, but I don't stop the recording this time. I let the silence speak for a moment.

  "My first role in college was Clara in the "Nutcracker." Not the ballet–the raunchy sex musical parody of it. On stage, I cracked someone's nuts, hence the name. It was a role that terrified me." But a smile tugs at my mouth. "But as soon as I stepped into the role, I wasn't scared anymore. I wasn't… me anymore."

  Words come easier. They flow with each one pulling the next along like links in a chain.

  "I know how that sounds, running away from myself. And maybe I am, a little." I let out a chuckle. "But it's more than that. When I'm performing, I'm more honest than I ever am in real life. More vulnerable. More…everything."

  I feel naked. This isn't what I practiced. But it's more raw than anything I've tried before.

  "The past year has been…" I hesitate, unsure of how much to reveal. "Challenging. I lost my voice–not literally, but…something close to it."

  I suck in a breath.

  "At Deer Lake, I want to find my voice again. Not just as an actor, but as a person."

  I lean forward and lower my voice.

  "But the truth is, I'm applying to Deer Lake because I need it. Because for two hours in a community theater production of 'Our Town,' I remembered what it was like to breathe."

  My eyes start to sting, but I don't look away.

  "If you admit me…"

  I'm staring down the camera now.

  "I won't let you down."

  The last words hang in the air. For several seconds, I don't move, and I allow the moment to stretch out. I allow myself to sit with the vulnerability of what I've just shared.

  Then I reach forward and click stop.

  My finger hovers over the delete button as my mother's voice wriggles its way into my head.

  But beneath her criticism, I hear something else: my own voice. It's clearer than it's been in months. Stronger, too.

  I sit back in the chair. My heart is still racing. I need a minute, space to breathe. My legs are unsteady as I gather my makeup bag and head for the bathroom down the hall.

  In the bathroom, I grip the edge of the sink and stare at my reflection.

  My phone vibrates in my pocket. A text from my mother:

  Did you record it? Should I stay up to review?

  Six months ago, I would have sent the video immediately and waited for her approval. I would have been willing to re-record as many times as necessary to meet her standards.

  But something has shifted in the past twenty minutes.

  I type back:

  Finished. Going to submit it tonight. Will call you tomorrow.

  The dots appear immediately. Disappear. Reappear. Finally:

  Make sure to review it first. Sleep on it if necessary.

  I slip the phone back into my pocket without responding.

  Back in the study room, my laptop has dimmed. I wriggle the trackpad and bring it back to life. The video file sits there and waits for me.

  I should watch it back. I should check for awkward pauses, nervous tics, moments where my voice wavers. That's what any reasonable person would do.

  Instead, I open the Deer Lake application portal and navigate to the submission page. My fingers tremble as I click "Upload File."

  I could still delete it and start over.

  But then I'd be hiding again. And I'm so tired of hiding.

  Upload complete.

  I click "Submit Application."

  The website loads a confirmation page. "Thank you for your application to Deer Lake Conservatory. You will receive notification when your application status is updated."

  As I pack up my things, I notice my breaths are steadier now. The panic has subsided. I realize that for the first time in months, I finally did something entirely for myself.

  The library's PA system crackles to life. "The library will be closing in fifteen minutes. Please bring any materials you wish to check out to the circulation desk."

  I don't know if Deer Lake will admit me. I don't know if I'm good enough, raw enough, real enough for them.

  But for once, that uncertainty doesn't terrify me.

  Elliot's POV:

  The applause still rings in my ears as I linger backstage. The rest of the cast has already changed and left for the after party. But I can't bring myself to leave yet.

  "Elliot? You coming?" Mara pokes her head through the doorway. She's already changed.

  "Yeah, in a bit," I say. I'm still holding a prop: Javert's police ledger from our just completed run of "Les Misérables." "Just need a minute."

  She hesitates. "Don't take too long. Dennis is buying the first round."

  "I'll be there," I lie, knowing I won't.

  When the door closes, I let out an exhale. The theater is quiet, and the audience is gone. I'm still half in my costume. My stage makeup makes me look older than twenty-eight. I should be changing, should be joining my cast mates for celebratory drinks.

  Instead, I pull out my phone and open the email that's been in my inbox for weeks: "Deer Lake Conservatory – Application Deadline Reminder."

  Since I got it, I've been imagining different versions of my life. There's one where I stay at my marketing job forever and make banner ads for discount furniture stores until I die. Or the one where I take a risk that terrifies me.

  I scroll through the requirements again. Most of it is doable, but the video…that's the part that keeps me from moving forward. Two minutes of talking about why I want to go to Deer Lake.

  Because the thought of never doing this again makes my chest physically ache.

  I couldn't say that out loud, especially not to Jess. Five years together, and she still thinks acting is just my hobby. She's already planning our future: a house in the Boston suburbs, the golden retriever, the 401k. The reasonable, responsible path.

  "You still here?" The voice startled me. It's Kevin, our director. He's in the doorway.

  "Just…decompressing," I say as I lock my phone screen.

  He nods. "It's always hard after a closing night. Especially when it's a good run."

  "Yeah."

  He steps in and sets his bag down. "You know, you were surprising in this role."

  "How so?" I tense and brace myself for criticism.

  "You committed. Most guys who come in from office jobs hold back. Too afraid to look foolish or something…You jumped into the Seine like you had nothing to lose."

  I laugh. "Maybe I don't."

  "Everyone has something to lose, Elliot." He studies me for a moment. "But sometimes what you gain is worth the risk."

  I wonder if he somehow knows about Deer Lake.

  "You should consider training," he finally says. "You've got the raw talent, but you could be so much better with the right coaching."

  "Any recommendations?"

  "Depends. Local classes can be good. But if you're serious…" He trails off.

  I should tell him. Say the words out loud: I'm thinking of applying to Deer Lake. But I know what that means. I'd be leaving my life behind for a dream that might not work out.

  So, I can't make myself form the words.

  "I should get going," I say, instead. "Jess is waiting.

  Kevin nods, but he seems disappointed. "Sure. Well, it's been great working with you these past few months. You should be proud."

  As I change out of my costume, my phone buzzes with a text from Jess:

  How was the last show? Still need to finish my presentation for tomorrow. Left dinner in the fridge.

  I stare at the screen, at the life summarized in one text. The girlfriend who "supported" my hobby but married her career with the leftovers waiting in our shared apartment.

  I type back:

  Show went great. Heading home soon.

  Instead of driving to the cast party, I find myself parked outside my apartment building. The engine is off. I can see our living room window from here. It's dark. Jess must be working in the back office.

  I pull out my phone and open the camera app. The dashboard clock reads 11:23 PM. Just barely more than 48 hours until the deadline.

  It's now or never.

  I prop my phone up on my dash and angle myself so the streetlight hits my face. I run a hand through my hair, it's still stiff with product, and straighten my collar.

  My face appears on the screen, and I look too stiff. I loosen my collar, unbutton the top button of my shirt, and ease my muscles.

  Record.

  "Hi, I'm Elliot Vian, and I'm applying for Deer Lake Conservatory."

  A car pulls into the lot and the headlights sweep across me. I duck. The car parks three spaces down, and a couple gets out. They laugh as they head toward their apartment.

  Once they're gone, I straighten up, feeling foolish. Why am I hiding in my own car like I'm having an illicit affair?

  Because it's more than an application.

  I take a deep breath and try again, hoping no rogue cars will interrupt.

  "My grandmother came from Cuba with only a suitcase and a picture of her parents."

  I pause, surprised by my own opening. I hadn't planned to start with her.

  "She worked three jobs to put my dad through school. Used to tell him, 'I didn't leave everything behind so you could be complacent.’”

  I smile as I remember how she'd pinch my cheeks too hard and slip me butterscotch candies.

  "When I told her I got promoted at my job, she just said, "That's nice. Are you happy?"

  I shift in my seat.

  "I lied and said yes. But then…"

  My phone buzzes with a text. Jess again.

  Heading to bed soon. You still out?

  I stop the recording. I'll have to start again.

  I type back:

  Just leaving. Cast wanted to get a celebratory drink. Be home in 30.

  I hit record again, say the same lines until I'm back where I left off.

  "I had my first panic attack in the bathroom at work soon after. Quarterly review meetings, everyone talking about sales projections. And suddenly I couldn't breathe. Couldn't remember why it all mattered."

  I pause; my throat is tight with the memory.

  "My friend dragged me to an audition the next weekend. Said I needed something outside of work. I hadn't acted since high school. Figured I'd embarrass myself."

  The memory of that first audition floods back in.

  "I got the part. It was a small role, only a few lines. But during our first performance, I wasn't thinking about deadlines or metrics or projections. I was just…present. Completely present."

  I laugh softly.

  "After the show, I sat in my car and cried. I wasn't sad. It was just the first time in years that I felt something real."

  My phone buzzes again, but I ignore it.

  "My grandmother told me she didn't come to America so that I could be on antidepressants. I thought it was a joke, but…"

  I look into the camera as something erupts in my chest.

  "I've spent my adult life unhappy. Taking the stable job. Making the responsible choice. And I thought that it was enough."

  I pause as my words catch in my throat.

  "But it's not. And I can't pretend anymore."

  Suddenly, my car feels too small. I need air. I need space. I need this.

  "My grandmother crossed an ocean for her dream of a better life for her family. The least I can do is to be brave enough to try."

  I take a deep breath and steady myself.

  "I won't let you down."

  I reach out and stop the recording. For several seconds, I sit there and just listen to the distant sounds of the city at night.

  My phone lights up with another text from Jess:

  ??????

  I ignore it and navigate to the Deer Lake application portal. The form is nearly complete. I'd filled most of it out during one lunch break. All that's missing is the video.

  I click "Upload" and a progress bar appears. 12%…18%…24%…

  My phone rings. Jess' face appears on screen.

  37%…52%…68%…

  What am I doing? If I'm accepted, I'd have to tell Jess that the future she's been planning isn't the one that I want.

  83%…91%…99%

  Upload complete.

  There's one final button: "Submit Application."

  As my thumb hovers over it, I think of my grandmother again. And I press submit.

  As I get out of my car, I rehearse excuses in my head for why I'm so late. The cast party ran long. We lost track of time. My phone was on silent.

  I find Jess asleep in our bed. I watch her for a moment. Five years together, and I still find her beautiful. But the guilt eats at me, knowing what might be coming.

  I kiss her forehead. She stirs but doesn't wake. I sit on the edge of the bed and pull out my phone. I skim the Deer Lake confirmation email as proof I actually did it.

  Part of me wants to share this moment with someone. To call my best friend, or even Kevin, and say, "I took the leap." But I don't want to expose it to anyone else's opinion yet.

  This is mine. My decision, My future.

  Tomorrow, I'll act like nothing has changed.

  For her, nothing has. For me, everything has.