“I’m just saying,” Ethan argues as he shits uncomfortably on his floor pillow, “if I wanted to sit cross-legged for two hours a day, I would’ve become a kindergarten teacher.”

  “Or joined a cult,” Michael adds. “At least they’d give us robes.

  I glance around at the “bohemian” decor. Between the dream catchers and lava lamps, I’m convinced our professor either moonlights as a psychic or is a lost New Age enthusiast.

  I shift positions in an effort to find any angle where my spine doesn’t protest. My body isn’t built for sitting on the floor anymore, and my lower back is announcing that fact.

  I’ve been hanging out with the boys since orientation ended. We’ve gravitated to each other as the only ones able to rent a car without a fee…and there’s Ethan, too. It’s been nice. Comfortable in a way I didn’t expect. After the orientation showcase, we ended up at Michael’s apartment playing cars and slamming back beers.

  Apparently, the conversation now has moved onto relationships, and Ethan has me in his sights. “You could use some intimacy,” he says and punches my shoulder. “When’s the last time you got laid, old man?”

  I give him a look that I hope communicates exactly how much I don’t want to discuss my sex life– or lack thereof–right now.

  “Leave him alone,” Danny says. “Unlike you, some of us didn’t come here to just hook up.”

  “I mean we will be spending a lot of time with each other,” Michael says. “That stage manager we met was pretty cute–”

  I don’t catch what he says as there’s movement at the front of the classroom. My body immediately responds before my brain can catch up.

  Three women have just walked in. There’s two I don’t recognize. But the third is unmistakable. The girl from orientation. The one with the dark curls and sharp eyes. The one I made an idiot of myself in front of by forgetting my check book. The one whose laugh I’ve been thinking about on and off for days.

  She’s wearing a top that dips just low enough to make me look at the wall behind her, afraid she’ll catch me staring.

  “Do you know them?” I ask Danny, trying to keep my voice casual.

  “The one with the curls talked to me during orientation,” he says. “She’s funny.”

  “What’s her name?”

  “Noelle. I’m almost sure.”

  Noelle. Her name catches in my mind like a hook.

  They hover by the door and take in the room. I watch as Noelle says something that makes the others laugh, and something in my chest tightens.

  “Think they’ll come sit over here?” Michael asks.

  “Why do you care?” Danny asks.

  I don’t hear Michael’s reply because I see the three of them huddled together in conversation now. The blonde keeps looking our way, then saying something that makes Noelle fidget with her top.

  “Incoming,” Danny mutters as the short-haired one breaks away from the group and walks directly toward us.

  She drops onto an empty pillow next to Danny. She turns to the rest of us. “I’m Amelia.” She gestures at her friends, still by the door. “That’s Noelle, and the blonde is Harlowe. They’re, uh, shy.”

  We introduce ourselves quickly. When it’s my turn, I just say, “Elliot,” and try not to sound like I’ve been repeating her friend’s name in my head for the past minute.

  “So, what’s with the pillows?” Amelia asks. “Is the professor throwing a slumber party?”

  “God, I hope not,” Ethan says. “I left my footie pajamas at home.”

  “They’re making my back ache,” Michael adds. “I’m an hour away from worker’s comp.”

  Amelia laughs, then turns and waves at her friends. She pats the empty pillow beside her. The blonde–Harlowe–nudges Noelle, who looks like a deer in headlights.

  I watch as they exchange a look before they start walking toward us. Suddenly, I become aware of my posture, my expression, the fact I haven’t had a haircut in over a month.

  As they get closer, I catch fragments of their whispered conversation.

  “–scared little bitches–”

  “–am a scared little–”

  I straighten slightly and attempt to push the weird stomach-swooping feeling aside. Noelle sits next to Amelia, and Harlowe settles on Noelle’s other side. She leans forward, across Noelle’s lap, to address us.

  “Hope you don’t mind us crashing the sausage party.”

  “The more the merrier,” Danny says, then launches into some joke that makes Michael jump in with his own quip.

  Noelle lets out a snort during it all. It catches me off guard, but I find myself wanting to hear it again, just so I know I didn’t imagine it. When she looks up and catches me watching, I redirect my attention to one of the dream catchers.

  Luckily, the conversation between all of us flows well. Amelia asks about the class, and Michael tells some story about eye contact that lead to him dating the director’s niece. I half-listen, too aware of Noelle sitting a few pillows down, too aware she occasionally tucks her hair behind her ear in what seems to be a nervous tic.

  “What track are y’all on?” Danny asks the girls.

  “Screen-acting,” Amelia answers for them.

  The information hits me with unexpected force. The same track, the same classes, the potential to be partners for scene work. That thought of having to act opposite of Noelle sends a wave of terror through my chest. Professionalism was the plan. Focus was the goal. And now…there’s her.

  Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

  “We’re theater,” Danny says, gesturing to himself, Michael, and Ethan. Then he slaps my shoulder hard enough to jolt me from my thoughts. “This one is a traitor.”

  I force a casual shrug. “I had to follow my heart. And it told me I don’t want to project to the back row eight shows a week.”

  “Fair,” Danny nods. “I’ms sure my vocal chords will be hating me soon enough.”

  I steal another glance at Noelle. She’s watching our exchange but not participating. Her dark eyes take everything in. There’s something disarming about the way she observes; it’s sharp and assessing but not judgemental.

  “What do you even think they teach in this class?” Harlowe asks, leaning toward us. “Like how do you hold eye contact without laughing?”

  Ethan jumps in. "Or how to kiss convincingly without catching feelings."

  The word “kiss" hits my brain, and I think it hit something vital. All I can think about is the professional requirement to potentially kiss classmates in scenes. To kiss people who are essentially strangers. To maybe kiss–

  I shut that thought down immediately. It’s like what James said: hooking up in your program is professional suicide. The entire point of coming here was to get a new lease on life, not complicate it with inappropriate thoughts about someone I’ll have to work with for two years.

  “What about you?” Harlowe asks, eyebrows raised expectantly. “Ever fall for a scene partner?”

  Wait, was that directed at me? Everyone is looking at me now, including Noelle, whose expression I can’t read. I scramble for an answer.

  “No,” I manage after a beat too long. “But I haven’t done much scene work with partners. Not really.”

  “Well, there’s a first time for everything,” Harlowe says with a smile.

  “I actually do think I heard something about the class,” Danny says, taking the reins of the conversation. “My friend was a first-year last year, and they had to perform scenes from The Room in their underwear.”

  “You’re joking,” Noelle says, her voice cutting through the chatter.

  My brain immediately conjures up an image so vivid it feels like a physical blow: Noelle in nothing but a black bra and shorts, standing under stage lights, hair cascading down her shoulders and back, looking directly at me while delivering lines. It hits me so hard and unexpectedly that I have to shift to hide my body’s embarrassing reaction.

  Jesus Christ, what is wrong with me? I’m twenty-eight, not sixteen. I should be capable of professional distance.

  I force myself to focus on the conversation again, just in time to hear Harlowe launch into something about a student horror film.

  “I had to do this scene where I was being chased by the killer,” she says, “and the director kept telling me to ‘look more terrified’ while I’m literally running through the woods at 3 AM in my underwear with some dude in a mask chasing me. I was already terrified because the gaffer sucked.”

  “Just for a student film credit?” Michael asks.

  “It was worth it for my reel,” Harlowe shrugs. “Plus, it got me in touch with the actress from Bell View, the one with the controversial shower scene. She told me the secret to sex scenes is to treat it like stage combat. You count the beats, hit your marks, and focus on your breathing so you don’t tense up.”

  “Breathing is the last thing I’d be focusing on,” Amelia mutters.

  “That’s exactly why amateurs look so awkward on camera,” Harlow replies. “They hold their breath. They get self-conscious and start thinking about how they look instead of acting. And that’s why I think having sex on camera is basically the same thing as doing a fight scene. It’s all choreography and breathing.”

  “Wow, that’s…a perspective,” Amelia says, looking slightly bemused.

  "You’ve been quiet, Noelle,” Danny says, turning to Noelle “What are you thinking about?”

  For a moment, she looks caught off guard, like she wasn’t expecting to be included.

  Amelia jumps in, “She’s got secrets.”

  “Fine,” Noelle sighs dramatically. “You caught me. I'm actually on the run after cutting my ex's penis off. Long story, but he deserved it."

  Silence follows. Everyone freezes. Then, I’m laughing before I can help it. The sound bursts out unexpectedly.

  Danny joins in, followed by Amelia. And I can’t look away from Noelle. There’s something about that perfectly delivered line and the slight quirk at the edge of her mouth when she said it.

  “Remind me to never piss you off,” I say.

  Her eyes meet mine directly for the first time, and the air between us shifts. “I only target guys who truly deserve it,” she responds as she holds my gaze.

  The corner of my mouth pulls up again without my permission. I’m hyper aware of my heartbeat, the distance between our pillows, of Danny and Amelia sitting between us.

  “So what does one do to stay off your bad side?” I ask, and it feels like the most important question I’ve asked in months.

  She considers this and tilts her head slightly. “Mmmm, coffee helps.”

  The words make my chest tight. We’ve moved from hypothetical castration to coffee. It’s not normal by any means. But something about her eyes, steady on mine, makes everything else in the room fade to background noise, and I realize I don’t want to be talking about anything else.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” as I lean over Danny. “Do you have a coffee place recommendation around here?”

  Her lips part slightly, and she begins to answer. “Actually, I found this place yesterday that—"

  The door flies open with a bang that jolts through the room, and I feel like I’m being doused with cold water. I straighten and blink the moment away, suddenly self-conscious about how far I’d been leaning forward.

  A man sweeps into the room with a flourish, and the room falls silent.

  "Welcome," he announces, arms spread wide, "to the most important course you will take at this conservatory."

  Professor Bell. He’s wearing loose linen pants and a shirt with too many buttons undone, like he’s about to lead a “wellness retreat.” Just looking at him makes me want to check if my wallet is still in my pocket.

  “In this room,” he starts as she paces in front of our pillows, “you will discover the most fundamental truth of acting: connection is everything. Not skill. Not technique. Not even talent.” He stops dramatically. “Connection.”

  The words hang in the air, and I feel that same current from moments ago when Noelle’s eyes had locked with mine. Connection. Is that what that was? It feels both too simple and too complicated a word for whatever passed between us.

  I glance at Noelle, but she;s watching the professor now.

  “American culture,” Bell proclaims, “has made us afraid of intimacy. Afraid of truly seeing each other. We build walls, erect barriers, maintain distance.” He makes chopping motions with his hands to emphasize each point. “In this class, we break those down. We learn to be present with each other–authentically, fearlessly present.”

  Danny raises his eyebrow at me in a silent “told you so” about the class. I just shrug and take another look at Noelle, a few people down. Was I imagining the moment? The way everything seemed to fade when our eyes met?

  “Our work begins with–”

  The door swings open, and a guy in his early twenties strolls in, completely unfazed by the fact that class has already started. He’s wearing clothes that scream “my father is someone important” with that particular brand of confidence of never having faced consequences.

  “Sorry,” he says, not sounding remotely sorry. “My dog got a splinter, and she’s like stupid, so…”

  Bell’s demeanor transforms instantly. His easy smile vanishes, replaced by a tight-lipped glare.

  “Name?” He asks, voice clipped.

  “Christian Vega,” the guys answers.

  “Mr. Vega, in my classroom, punctuality is not optional.”

  Christian blinks, clearly not expecting this. “But it was an emergency–”

  “Your emergency has now become a distraction for the entire class.” Belle turns to address us all. “True connection begins with respect. For your craft, for your partners, for the space we create together.” He points to an empty pillow. “Sit.”

  “As I was saying,” Bell continues, his pleasant demeanor returning, “our work begins with presence. With truly seeing each other.”

  He moves around the room, touching shoulders lightly as he passes. “In this room, we don’t perform. We reveal. We don’t hide behind characters–we use them to access deeper truths about ourselves.”

  As Bell continues, I find my attention drifting back to Noelle. There’s something magnetic about her, something that pulls at me despite my better judgement. She glances over, and for a second, our eyes meet again. That same unexpected jolt passes through me. But as Bell talks about breaking down walls, I can’t help feeling that one of mine has already started to crack.