Nathan dragged his backpack into the empty classroom, his shoulders aching under the weight of exhaustion. Another late afternoon, another rehearsal. The fluorescent lights buzzed faintly above, casting a pale glow that made the whole room feel too quiet, too sterile.
He slumped into a chair, dropped his bag with a thud, and exhaled.
"Finally," Jullie called from the corner, balancing a pile of scripts on her knee. "Do you even sleep anymore, Nathan?"
"Sleep? What's that?" he muttered, rubbing his face. "I think the last time I slept properly was... four nights ago? Or maybe three. Time's not real anymore."
Jullie laughed, but there was a tiredness in her tone that matched his. "Three weeks of this madness, and we're still pretending it's fun. You really thought signing up for the play was gonna be a walk in the park, huh?"
Nathan cracked a weak smile. "I thought it'd be different. You know—fun, dramatic, new experience type of thing. Be Romeo, fall in love under fake moonlight." He groaned, flipping through his worn script. "Turns out, Romeo doesn't sleep either."
"You're not Romeo yet," Jullie teased, leaning back. "You're Nathan—the overworked, half-delirious version of him."
He smirked despite the fatigue. "Thanks. That's... oddly accurate."
When practice started, the room came alive with chaos. Half the cast scrambled for missing props while others argued about blocking. A few were too dramatic, others too stiff, and the director's voice kept slicing through the noise: "Again! With feeling this time!"
Nathan moved through it all like a ghost, mumbling lines to himself, his brain constantly skipping words.
"'What's in a name? That which we call a rose—'"
"Nathan!" The director clapped his hands sharply. "Louder! You're Romeo, not a customer ordering coffee!"
Heat flushed up Nathan's neck. He straightened, inhaled, and repeated louder, forcing every word through the dryness in his throat.
"What's in a name? That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet!"
The director smiled faintly. "Better. Feel it, Nathan. You're not memorizing; you're confessing. That's Juliet right there—talk to her."
Nathan wanted to roll his eyes but didn't. Instead, he swallowed the frustration and nodded. The next line came easier, a little smoother.
Still, by the first hour mark, his voice was hoarse. The second hour hit, and his legs started to ache from running the same scene again and again.
When the director finally called for a five-minute break, Nathan dropped to the floor beside Jullie, chugging water like he'd been lost in the desert.
"You good?" she asked.
"I think my brain just blue-screened," he muttered. "Every line I learn just—poof—disappears the moment I try to say it in front of people."
"That's theater for you," she said, half-smiling. "The lines live in another dimension and only visit when they feel like it."
He laughed softly, shaking his head. "So basically, Romeo hates me."
By the end of the first week, Nathan realized that theater wasn't about pretending—it was about surviving. Memorization was one thing, but endurance was another. The director's voice haunted him in his dreams: "Projection! Emotion! Connection!"
Every night, Nathan stayed up with a cup of instant coffee, repeating lines until they blurred together.
"O Romeo, Romeo! Wherefore art thou Romeo?"
"Good night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow..."
The words echoed endlessly in his head, looping until sleep finally dragged him under.
The second week hit harder. Rehearsals stretched longer—five hours, sometimes six. The cast grew quieter, the laughter replaced by focus and fatigue. Jullie's jokes dulled into sighs. Marco, the guy playing Mercutio, started showing up with energy drinks instead of meals.
During one run-through, Nathan's body finally hit its limit.
He was supposed to swoon gracefully at Juliet's final words, but instead his knees buckled for real. His vision blurred for a second, and his script nearly slipped from his hand.
"Nathan!" Jullie whispered from the wings. "You okay?"
"I'm fine," he lied, straightening up. "Just... method acting."
The director arched an eyebrow. "If your 'method acting' includes fainting, maybe hydrate first, Romeo."
The room laughed lightly, easing the tension. Nathan chuckled too, though his chest still thudded painfully.
That night, when he got home, he didn't even make it to his bed. He collapsed on the couch, scripts spilling from his backpack. The clock glared 12:47 a.m. at him. He still needed to memorize Act III.
He groaned. "Why did I think theater was a good idea?"
Still, he pushed through. Every word he read felt heavier, every paragraph a hill to climb. But slowly, painfully, the lines began to stick. His tongue stopped tripping over phrases, his tone steadied. He began to feel the rhythm of it—the melody beneath the dialogue.
"My only love sprung from my only hate..." he whispered to himself, staring blankly at the ceiling. "Yeah. Story of my life right now."
The next morning in class, he could barely keep his eyes open. His notebook was filled with half-scribbled notes and random fragments of dialogue from Romeo and Juliet. When the teacher called his name, it took him two full seconds to realize it wasn't another rehearsal cue.
"Nathan, are you listening?"
He blinked, forcing a weak grin. "I'm... mentally present."
Jullie snickered from across the aisle, whispering, "Barely."
By the third week, something started to change. The exhaustion didn't vanish, but it became part of him—a quiet rhythm that pulsed alongside the lines he recited. He knew where to pause now, when to breathe, how to hold Juliet's gaze without flinching.
During one scene, the director stopped mid-critique and just stared for a moment. "There," he said quietly. "That's the first time I believed you were in love."
Nathan froze, the words catching him off guard. He wanted to laugh, to joke it off, but instead, a small, proud smile crept across his face. "Thanks," he said softly.
Jullie nudged him later. "See? Told you. You're getting it."
"Yeah," he admitted. "Guess practice does something after all."
Rehearsal after rehearsal, the difference became clear. His movements flowed naturally, his delivery sharpened, and the fear that used to choke him slowly faded into confidence.
There were still slip-ups—forgotten lines, missed cues—but now, he didn't crumble under them. He recovered, improvised, learned to laugh it off.
By the final dress rehearsal, the cast was buzzing. Props were finally fixed, lights tested, costumes ready. The chaos had shape now—a living, breathing story.
When Nathan stepped onto the stage that night, under the glow of the spotlights, the exhaustion melted away. All that remained was rhythm. The lines he had once stumbled over now came effortlessly, each one sinking into the air like he'd always known them.
"What's in a name?" he said softly, voice steady, eyes focused. "That which we call a rose by any other name would smell as sweet."
The director didn't interrupt. The room stayed still.
And in that silence, Nathan felt something—pride, relief, maybe both.
The scene ended. The applause came—not from a full audience, just his castmates and the crew—but it felt real. It felt earned.
After rehearsal, Jullie tossed him a water bottle. "You did it, Romeo."
He smiled, catching it midair. "Yeah... finally."
As he walked home under the dim orange streetlights, his bag lighter than it had ever felt, he thought about the past three weeks—the frustration, the sleepless nights, the coffee-fueled mornings. Every stumble, every near-collapse had led to this.
He wasn't perfect. But he'd made it.
That night, when he finally fell onto his bed, script lying open on his chest, Nathan didn't bother to review another line. For once, his brain wasn't spinning.
He just smiled faintly and whispered, "Good night, Juliet."