The auditorium was dark except for one follow-spot. They were running the climax of Act 2—the moment chaos peaks and harmony begins to emerge.
The scene required them to stand inches apart, foreheads almost touching, while the music built to a crescendo. No kiss. Just the implication of one. The script called it "the breath before resolution."
They had avoided practicing this block until tonight.
Advisor Yamada sat in the front row with a notebook.
Akira and Sora took positions center stage.
Yamada called, "Action."
Music started—slow piano, then strings layering in.
Akira delivered his line first. "You push and push until everything breaks."
Sora answered. "And you hold everything so tight nothing can breathe."
They stepped closer on cue.
Closer.
Foreheads nearly touching.
The spotlight narrowed.
Sora's breath brushed his cheek.
Akira's pulse hammered in his throat.
The script said: hold for eight counts, then step back as music swells.
They held.
Five seconds.
Six.
Seven.
Sora's eyes flicked to his mouth—just once, barely noticeable.
Akira's hand twitched at his side, as if to reach for her waist.
Eight counts passed.
Nine.
Ten.
Yamada cleared his throat loudly.
They jumped apart.
Sora laughed—shaky. "Sorry. Lost count."
Akira adjusted his glasses. "My fault. Timing error."
Yamada stood. "That was… powerful. But you need to release on eight. The audience will riot if you drag it longer."
Sora nodded too quickly. "Got it."
Akira said nothing.
They ran it again.
This time they released on eight.
But the tension didn't leave.
After dismissal, Sora lingered near the prop table.
Akira packed slowly.
She spoke without looking at him. "That felt different."
"Yes."
She turned. "You didn't pull away first."
"You didn't either."
Sora bit her lip. "We're getting too good at pretending."
Akira met her eyes. "Or too bad at pretending it's pretend."
The words hung.
Sora exhaled. "We can't let this mess up the performance."
"No."
"So we stay professional."
"Professional."
She nodded. Started to leave.
Akira spoke before she reached the door.
"Sora."
She stopped.
He hesitated. "If it ever feels… too much. Tell me. We'll adjust."
She looked back over her shoulder.
"I will. You do the same."
She left.
Akira stood in the empty auditorium.
Professional.
He wasn't sure he knew what that word meant anymore.