Beyond the Curtain

You’ve fixed that damn light three times this week.

At this point, it’s just annoying you with its soft flicker. A soft, rhythmic pulse above the entrance, casting a stuttered glow over the velvet ropes and the scratched linoleum floor in the lobby. You stare up at it with a wrench in one hand and a roll of electrical tape in the other, biting the inside of your cheek hard enough to feel your pulse there.

One more thing that doesn’t work right.

The bulb’s only three years old, for fuck sakes, just like everything else in this theatre that was installed just slightly too cheaply. You remember when the renovations finished — full on polished wood stage, fresh paint, clean seating. Very modest, nothing like the polished chrome palaces of sound across the city, but it had charm. It had character.

Now it has peeling corners on the stairwell posters and a faucet backstage that leaks when it’s cold.

You step down from the stepladder and exhale slowly, pushing the wrench into the back pocket of your jeans. Your shoulders ache. Your jaw’s sore. You haven’t unclenched it properly in days.

"Another day in paradise, fucking hell."

Your voice echoes slightly in the open auditorium, a silence that fills a space that’s waiting. Not dead silence, no. It still hums with the memory of applause and feet scraping the floor and chairs creaking under shifting weight. But today, now, it just feels... suspended. Like everything in here is holding its breath.

“Flickering again?”

You stiffen. She always appears like that. No footsteps. No hello. Just suddenly, somewhere nearby.

You glance toward the seating and see her. Already in the fourth row, third seat from the aisle, exactly where you knew she’d be. Where she always sits before rehearsals.

Mina.

Dark coat still on, scarf tucked perfectly into her collar, fingers laced in her lap like she's waiting to be called for judgment. Her posture is perfect, her gaze passive. There’s something about her presence that’s always still, like she’s carved out of calm. She doesn’t fill the room the way most performers do. She doesn’t announce herself. She doesn’t have to.

You sigh and lean the ladder against the side wall. “It’s the wiring. Again. I swear this building was put together with spare parts and positive thinking.”

Mina blinks slowly, her expression unreadable. “Do you want me to call someone?”

You raise an eyebrow. “With what budget? The imaginary one?”

"We do make pretty decent money."

"Well, I'm stubborn, ok?" You huffed.

"Suit yourself." She hums. It's soft. Barely audible. Probably her version of acknowledging a joke.

You eye her from the edge of the stage. The house lights aren’t on, but some sunlight filters in through the narrow windows above the rear seats, catching in her hair. She looks composed. Untouchable. As usual.

“I thought Jihyo told you rehearsal wasn’t for another hour.” “She did. You did as well.”

“Then why are you here?” “I like the quiet,” she says. “Before the crew arrives.”

You scoff and step down off the stage, the boards creaking under your boots. “You? Liking something? Now that’s new.”

She tilts her head the tiniest bit. “I didn’t say I liked it. I said I preferred it.”

“Wow. Don’t be so enthusiastic, Sharon. You’ll scare the walls.”

Again, nothing. No twitch of the mouth. No glare. No snark back. Just that quiet stillness. Always watching, always composed. You fold your arms tighter, a familiar irritation prickling up your spine.

It’s not that she’s rude. She’s never been cruel, never been arrogant. She just doesn’t... react. You’ve known her for years now. Years of her singing like moonlight and sounding like magic—and still, she rarely shows you more than her carefully measured words and that impossible calm, which suited well with her stage name.

You never know what she’s thinking. The stoic face. The calm expression. You’re unsure if you should be annoyed or not, but it definitely makes your stomach twist.

You’ve heard the rumours. Whispers from other theatres. The bouquets. The calls. The offers. The elegant invitations sent directly to her, not through you. And she hasn’t said anything. Not a word. Not one single fucking word.

So, you haven’t either. Because if she is leaving, if she’s going... you’re not sure you want to hear her say it.

You force a shrug. “Well, we don’t have anything right now. Just lighting adjustments.”

“I know.”

“So go home. Eat your donut. Breathe.”

She glances at the empty stage. “I don’t mind being here at the moment.”

You learned to get used to how she says things like that, and it always sounds like the full stop on a sentence you weren’t finished writing.

You run a hand through your hair, already regretting coming in early.

“Suit yourself, just don’t blame me when your throat gives out and I say I told you so.”

Behind you, there’s no answer. No protest. No sigh. Not even the sound of her shifting in her seat.

She just... watches. Like always.

And you walk faster than you need to, because suddenly the quiet in the theatre doesn’t feel peaceful anymore.

It feels like the kind of silence right before the curtain rolls.

There was a time (five years ago, to be exact) when no one knew who she was. You don’t even remember what the other acts sounded like that night.

It was a rainy Thursday, a bone-deep, unforgiving downpours that made the walls of your theatre shudder with every gust of wind. Open mic night had been a last-ditch idea. Something to keep the lights on, get a few curious locals in the seats. You’d even printed flyers yourself, leaving stacks at bus stops and cafés, hoping someone, anyone, would show.

Eight people came. Five performed. None stood out.

And then, near the end, just as you were packing up leftover water bottles and untangling mic cords, she walked in.

Mina.

You didn’t know her name then. She wasn’t famous yet. Wasn’t even known. Probably as famous as that quiet ladder tucked away backstage.

She was soaked to the ankles, black coat damp from the rain, clutching a small USB drive in her hand. She didn’t introduce herself. Didn’t smile. She just looked at the stage, then looked at you, and said, flatly:

“Is it still open?”

You were a bit thrown, honestly. She didn’t have that awkward shuffle most people had when walking into a performance space. She just existed there—quiet, still, strangely poised.

“…Yeah,” you said after a beat, gesturing vaguely to the mic stand. “Yeah, sure. We’ve got a few minutes.”

You expected nerves. A shaky voice. Maybe another cover of some indie ballad.

Instead, silence.

Then music. And then her voice.

The room stopped breathing.

It was like glass breaking underwater, delicate but cutting. Soft, yet commanding. You felt it in the back of your teeth. Her voice didn’t beg for attention, didn’t fight to be heard. It is simply as if the space itself had been built to carry that sound. She didn’t move. Barely blinked. No, with just her voice. Just her damn fucking voice, man. And somehow, that was more powerful and enigmatic than anything you’d seen in months.

You sat there in the front row, dumbfounded. Halfway through the song, you leaned forward without even realizing it, elbows on your knees, heart pounding like you were watching something rare and fragile that could vanish if you so blinked.

When she finished, there was no applause. Just stillness. Reverent and a little stunned. She just walked off stage without a word after giving a light bow.

“Wait—!”

She stopped mid-step, turning slightly, expression unreadable.

You didn’t have a pitch ready. You just blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

“That was… incredible. I mean, I’ve never—shit, damn. Where did you learn to sing like that?”

She tilted her head slightly, as if the question confused her. “I didn’t.”

“You didn’t?” “I just sing.”

Wow. What the fuck. Of course she just sings.

You exhaled, trying not to look as breathless as you felt. “Okay. Listen. This is going to sound insane, but—would you consider coming back next week? I mean, it’s just a small slot, nothing fancy, but—hell, I’ll arrange the whole lineup if you want. I’ll find a better mic, or get you a proper spotlight, or—whatever you need. Just say the word.”

She stared at you for a long moment, eyes dark and unreadable.

“…You run this theatre?”

“Yeah,” you said, a little sheepishly, glancing around at the modest rows of red seats, the modest stage, the modest everything. “Well, I mean, it’s not the fanciest place, but… it’s mine. And I really think people need to hear you.”

Another pause. You didn’t breathe.

“…Okay,”

And then she left. Just like that.

You stood in the middle of the aisle long after the door clicked shut, grinning like an idiot.

Luckily, she came back the following week. On time. Alone. Dressed just as plainly. No entourage. No expectations. And when she sang again, the audience was twice as big. And then three times. And then sold out. And the rest is history.

You started paying her more before you even paid yourself. Anything just to keep this lotus here among the mud.

You began managing her schedule personally, not because she asked, but because she forgot to reply to emails. You handled inquiries, screened messages, declined the sketchy contracts she barely glanced at. She never requested anything, but you left tea at her seat anyway. Always warm, like she preferred.

She never said thank you outright. But sometimes she’d hand you tea before your meetings. Or stand next to you a little longer backstage before a show. Or hum one of your favourite songs during warm-up.

You didn’t need more than that. Not back then. You were just happy to be near the music. Happy to help her find a place to be heard. Happy she chose your theatre to sing in.

And now, she’s outgrown you. And you hated that you knew this place hindered her.

The theatre is quiet again, and you despite it.

It used to be peaceful — comforting, even. A sign that you’d made it through another day. That the crew finished the set without killing each other. That the lights didn’t explode, the sound didn’t fail, and no audience member vomited during intermission. These used to be victories.

Now, the silence feels… loaded. Like the air is waiting for something to collapse.

You pass the dressing rooms, scanning for signs of life. Most of the doors are open, lights off, seats empty, clothes gone. But hers — fourth door on the right, with the gold star sticker half-peeled on the top corner — is still shut.

You knock twice. No answer. So you knock again, already pushing the door open. “Mina, it’s me.”

She’s sitting in front of the mirror.

Her back is to you. Her reflection meets you first — smooth porcelain skin under the soft warmth of the mirror bulbs, lips just a touch parted, like she had something to say but forgot it halfway through the thought.

She’s brushing her hair with slow, deliberate movements. One side was already sleek and pinned. Her posture is impossibly straight, like she’s carved out of poise. Or maybe like she’s bracing for something.

You linger in the doorway.

“Still here?” you ask, pretending your voice isn’t cracking around the edges.

Mina doesn’t look at you. Her gaze stays fixed on her reflection, like she’s looking at someone she’s trying to recognize.

“We finished over an hour ago,” “I know.”

You take a breath. It tastes like dust and hairspray and the last ounce of patience you’ve been carrying.

“Why didn’t you leave?” “I didn’t feel like it.”

You scoff and step inside. “Great. Real communicative as always.”

She says nothing.

You run a hand through your hair, gripping it for a second at the root. “Mina, what are we even doing anymore?”

“…you tell me.”

You’re not ready for that answer. And yet, it’s the one you’ve been circling for weeks now. You drop into the armchair by the costume rack, the one with the fraying seam you never got around to fixing.

You don’t look at her when you speak next.

“Starship Theatre’s rep came again,” you say. “This time that guy brought a contract. Tried to slip it under the staff door like he’s a fucking spy.”

“He’s persistent.”

“Because he knows what he’s getting.” You stare at the carpet. “Because everyone does. He has a better hand here.”

She doesn’t respond. You can feel her watching you in the mirror.

“I know you’ve been getting offers,” you continue. “For months now. I know your name’s started showing up in music blogs. I know that video of you singing Doughnut hit over a million views. I didn’t bring it up because… it’s your choice.”

A beat of silence.

“And yet,” she says evenly, “you’re angry.”

“Of course I’m angry!” you snap, moving closer. “You’re the reason this theatre is still standing! You’ve been carrying the weight of it for years and—yeah, I didn’t want to admit that, but it’s true. You saved us. You saved me. And if you go—”

You stop yourself. If you go, I lose the only thing that makes this place feel alive. I will lose you. The words hover at the back of your throat, but you swallow them.

“I told myself I wouldn’t use you. That I’d keep it fair. That I’d only ask for what you were willing to give. But I did ask. Again and again. Even when you were tired. Even when I could tell you didn’t want to.”

Your throat tightens. “But I was selfish. Because I thought… if I gave you space, if I supported you right, if I never pushed too hard—you’d stay.” You look at her through the mirror, fully now. “And maybe you still will. Or maybe you’re already gone, and this is just a fucking formality.”

Mina is quiet. Then she places the brush down.

“I know” she says, measured and soft.

“You… know?” “I’ve known for a long time.”

Her voice doesn’t rise nor falter. But it lands heavy.

“I know this theatre is holding me back. I could have left a year ago, maybe two. But I stayed.”

You blink, unsure where she’s going with this.

“I stayed,” she continues, “because I thought… maybe something else would happen. Between us.”

The floor drops out from under you. “You…” Your voice cracks. “Mina—”

"You were and still…" Mina took a breath. "…a big part of my life. You gave me opportunities. You gave me a future. I gave my all…gave myself…. to this theatre. I want you to…just…look at me properly."

You swore the air got stuck in your lungs. "I do—"

“I waited,” she says, turning to look at you directly now. Her expression is calm, but her eyes hold the edge of disappointment honed over years. “For years. Hoping you’d say something. Do something. Anything that doesn't make me feel like a product. And every time you didn’t, I told myself to wait just a little longer.”

You don’t know what to say. You really fucking don’t.

She exhales quietly, as if admitting this costs her more than she wants you to see.

“When you asked for more shows, I said yes — because it meant more time here. More time near you. And I kept thinking… maybe this time. Maybe now.” Her eyes drop for the briefest second, then rise again. “But nothing happened. It’s always nothing.”

Her voice is still soft, still steady, but each word is measured like a final judgment.

“And I’m tired,” she says simply. “Tired of expecting something from you. Tired of living in a loop where I give you more, and you give me the same silence back.”

You step toward her, but she doesn’t move.

“So now,” she says, “I’ll give myself to something else. My career. Somewhere I can grow. Somewhere I’m not… waiting.”

You bite down on your lip. The word is right there, clawing its way up your throat, but you choke it back.

“Just like that?” you murmur.

“It’s not just. And it’s not easy.” She lowers her voice. “But I’ve known for a while.”

You stare at the spot on the vanity where her name is taped in crooked gold letters. You put it there. You remember how she didn’t react at all. But you sometimes saw her trace the edge of the tape when she thought you weren’t looking.

“…So that’s it?”

“...I’m sorry.”

And this time, you see the weight behind it. The flicker in her eyes. The tiny, imperceptible tremble in her voice.

You want to tell her it’s okay. You want to scream that it’s not. You don't know what role you should play in this damn tragedy. Instead, you drop your head into your hands and breathe in the scent of powder and old wood and her.

“…Can I be selfish one last time?” you ask, voice hoarse.

“Yes.”

You take a breath. “Stay for one last performance.”

You don’t realize how much hope you’re putting into the words until they’re out. You’re looking at her like maybe she’ll read your mind. Like maybe she’ll see all the things you can’t say.

Her expression doesn’t change.

Her eyes soften for a moment. You can almost feel the air shift, the ghost of something unspoken passing between you. She thinks this is it. She really thinks maybe this is it.

But then you stop. You say nothing more and let the moment die.

That tiny ember of hope sputters out.

“Alright,” Mina says quietly. “One last performance.”

The afterparty ends in laughter you can’t really quite join in on.

The crew claps your back. The supporting performers hug each other. The staff finally breathed. The new girl in costume cries a little and wipes it away before anyone notices.

And through it all, you smile. You thank them. You nod. You raise your cup. But you don’t feel any of it.

Because she’s not here. Not even a goodbye. Not even a glance.

When the last person leaves and the theatre goes quiet again, you lock the side doors, check the back rooms, and finally (God, finally) let yourself return to the stage.

You walk slowly, as if your feet weigh more tonight. Past the props still stacked from the encore, past the dimmed ghost light humming faintly in the centre. And down the side steps of the stage... to the audience seats. The seats stretch before you like gravestones in orderly rows, still warm from the hundreds that sat through her final performance. You stand at the edge of the aisle, hands deep in your pockets, gaze locked on that one familiar spot.

You sit where you always wanted to. Always wished you did. Not in the aisle. Not backstage. Not on the ladder hastily fixing that light bulb whenever she comes early despite being told by you and Jihyo. But here. Fourth row. Third seat from the aisle. Mina’s seat.

You don’t sit in it, no, that feels wrong. Still too warm with her shadow.

Instead, you sit beside it. Close, but not quite touching. As if she’ll walk in any second and (hopefully) scold you for invading her space. As if she’ll glance sideways and say something dry, something cool, something so uniquely her.

But the seat beside you stays cold and empty.

You lean forward, elbows on your knees, hands clasped together loosely. The theatre smells faintly of roses. Someone must’ve forgotten a bouquet behind. She always hated receiving that particular type. “Too flashy,” she once muttered, when someone tried to hand her thirty-five long stems wrapped in gold foil. “I prefer lilies.”

You should’ve remembered that sooner.

“…I always thought I’d have more time with you,” you say aloud, voice hoarse. “Not forever. Just… more. To properly know you.”

The walls don’t answer.

“I kept telling myself I didn’t want to bother you. That you liked your quiet. That it was enough just to… see you every day, to manage things so you didn’t have to worry.” You stare at the empty seat. “But I should’ve sat here. Just once. I should’ve just talked to you.”

The knot in your chest tightens.

All those days she came early and sat in this very spot. All those moments you caught her staring at the empty stage. You thought she needed silence. You thought she wanted space. But you never thought there’s a chance she would’ve let you stay, too.

You would’ve asked her how her day was. What song she was into lately. What she would like to do when she wasn’t rehearsing or performing or trapped in this little world you built around her. Maybe she would’ve shared more, even if just in fragments. Maybe it would've helped you know more on how to talk to her last time in the change room. Properly.

You read the crumbled note she left again, even though you’ve already memorized every word.

You were the first person who saw me. I sang for the theatre. I stayed because of you.

I’m sorry I never said it until now.

—Mina

“Why didn’t I just fucking sit next to you?”

A part of you knows the answer. Because you were scared that if you did, she wouldn't say anything… it would hurt worse than pretending you didn’t want to. You always got close to just sitting next to her every early morning when she tagged by. Always but lost the courage to.

Now there’s nothing left to pretend. She’s gone.

You sit there a while longer. Not saying anything. Not needing to. You just…breathe out.

The theatre breathes with you. Or maybe it exhales for the first time since she left.

It’s strange, isn’t it? How her absence fills more space than her presence ever did. Like she didn’t take up room until she was gone.

And maybe that’s what you’re really mourning. Not the fact that she left. But the realization that you let her slip through your fingers quietly, gently, without ever asking her to stay. Because you knew she wouldn’t.

Still…you wish she had said goodbye out loud. To you at least.

Just once.

You stop sitting next to her seat after the third night.

It was quiet comfort at first (not solace, never that), just the act of occupying the space she left behind. Like you could hold onto the faintest heat her body had left in the cushion. A phantom warmth. A last trace of her presence before the crew moved on without her.

But after three nights, it began to feel pretty fucking pathetic.

So instead, you get up earlier than everyone else. Show up before the city has even warmed beneath the morning sun. You unlock the side door with stiff fingers, lights still dark, and walk into that small, modest theatre that once felt full of life. Your steps echo a little too loud now. The sound rings back at you like an accusation.

The theatre isn’t falling apart. Not quite (yet).

Again, it was never one of those grand velvet-draped relics with golden balconies and champagne intermissions. No, your theatre was always modest — clean, functional, bare-boned charm with just enough character to feel intimate. It had that gentle age, like a smile line near the corner of a mouth, like it’s been through enough to feel lived in, but not enough to lose its soul.

But now, the soul feels like it’s missing.

You sweep. You rehang posters. You change the lightbulbs before they even have a chance to flicker. You spend hours poring over spreadsheets and emails from underwhelming performers, trying to sell them on a dream that doesn’t exist anymore. Maybe not ‘you’, just the ghost of you.

Because the dream was her. And she’s gone.

It’s been a month since Mina’s last show. And no matter how much you work, how hard you grind your teeth through meetings and rehearsal schedules, you can’t clean away the ache she left behind.

People talk to you less now. Not out of fear. Not exactly. But something colder. Hesitation, maybe. Like they’re walking around someone with a freshly bandaged wound they’re afraid to bump into.

You used to be sharp, sure — biting and sarcastic, that kind of "show not tell" energy the team secretly loved. They used to tease you about it. Laugh when you scolded them for wasting time, even as you handed out snacks during breaks and made sure everyone had water bottles at tech rehearsals. You were cold in words, warm in action. That was the balance.

But now… now it’s just cold.

No more dry jokes. No offhand remarks laced with reluctant affection. Just clipped orders, frustrated sighs, and a silence that wraps around your shoulders like a soaked coat.

Jihyo, your stage manager, tries to hide her concern. She gives you looks that hover between annoyance and worry. But she doesn’t push. Not at first.

Others aren’t so subtle.

“I heard she’s doing shows at Starship now,” your assistant, says one afternoon, while coiling cables. Her voice is low but pointed. “Sold out four nights consecutively. Must be nice.”

You grunt. Don’t look up. Just keep typing into the budgeting spreadsheet that refuses to balance.

“She probably doesn’t even think about this place anymore.”

You glance up slowly, meeting her eyes. There’s a flicker of guilt on her face, but it’s buried under something else. Frustration. Jealousy, maybe. You don’t answer.

“…Probably not.” you say, voice flat.

And that’s all it takes.

Your silence gives them permission. Not directly. But something changes after that. Whispers get a little louder. The ones who worked with Mina — who watched her light up the stage without even trying — they start to speak of her with less reverence.

“She was distant, anyway.” “She didn’t care about any of us.” “She sang, sure, but she never stayed after shows. Never smiled. Never shared anything.” “She just left.”

You never correct them. You never defend her. Not because they’re right — but because you don’t have the energy to untangle all the mess she left you with. Because deep down, you know that if you open your mouth, it will be a dam breaking. A flood of things you never had the courage to say to her face.

So, you stay quiet. Bottling up all the things you knew about Mina more than everyone else. And they start to dislike her. Not hate. Not really. Just enough for the resentment to bloom in corners. Just enough to fill the space she left behind.

The new cast members — the ones who came in after Mina’s final bow — hear the bitterness second-hand. They weren’t there to see how she moved. How she never needed grandeur or choreography. How the air would still around her when she stood at centre stage and simply sang. How she didn’t perform for attention, but for some sacred rhythm inside her chest you were never allowed to hear.

They don’t understand. They don’t want to understand.

Hence, they shrug, and say, “She wasn’t that special.”

You hear it too many times. Each time, it chips you, yet you don’t respond. You just stare at the spot on stage where she used to stand — downstage centre, left foot slightly forward, chin tilted in that exact unintentional elegance. The spotlight always caught her eyes just right.

You remember everything about her presence. It lingers, even now, like perfume in an empty room.

Eventually, Jihyo corners you after a long, soul-crushing rehearsal. The new lead fumbled two lines. The sound tech cut out. You snapped harder than necessary. People left with their heads down.

Jihyo doesn’t sugarcoat it. “You’re bleeding the team dry.”

“They’ll live.” “They’ll leave.”

You stop. Stare at her.

She folds her arms. “You think no one notices? You haven’t smiled in days. You bark at everyone. You’re distant, cold. Way worse than usual.”

Your jaw tenses. “I’m…keeping the theatre running.”

“We’re all keeping it running,” she fires back. “But you? You’re not directing anymore. You’re just fucking surviving. And you’re dragging the rest of us through the mud with you.”

You stare at her long and hard. No energy in your voice this time. Just exhaustion.

“She left,” you whisper. “She walked out the side door without looking back. And I let her.”

There’s a long silence. Jihyo’s face softens, but only slightly. “You didn’t make her leave.”

“No,” you murmur. “But I didn’t ask her to stay, either.”

She leaves you there, standing alone under the harsh fluorescent lights. You think she wants you to take a break. To go home. To rest.

Well, you don’t. You wait until the theatre is empty again. Until the hallway is silent. Until the last staff member has left.

And then, for the first time in a while, you walk to the fourth row.

You don’t sit.

You just stand there. Staring at her seat.

You remember the way she used to sit — poised, always straight-backed, hands folded. Never slouched. Always composed. Like she was made of something quieter than confidence. Something permanent.

You look down at the cushion. It’s just fabric. Just foam. But it still faintly feels like her.

Your fingers brush the armrest.

“Mina,” you whisper. Her name still fits awkwardly in your throat. “Why didn’t you make me stop you?”

There’s no answer. Of course not. And you just clench your jaw and turn away.

Once again, you go back to work. Because the show must go on. Even if the person who made it feel worth watching is no longer in the audience. No longer in the wings. No longer… yours.

Just a silence, now. And a seat that remains empty.

The house lights hadn’t even dimmed yet, but the backstage buzz was already picking up. You stood on the edge of the stage, clipboard pressed tight against your ribs, eyes narrowed as you studied the rigging high above.

Jihyo approached, her footsteps cautious but steady. “Hey, you okay?” she asked, voice soft but carrying that unmistakable edge of concern. You barely glanced at her.

“…fine,” you muttered, adjusting a spotlight with the long pole. Your hands trembled slightly as you gripped it tighter, trying to will the weakness away.

“Ya, you’re not fine.” She stepped closer, folding her arms. “You’ve been rubbing your temple all morning and skipping lunch.”

“I’m just tired, Jihyo. You know how it is.” You tried to force a smile, but it cracked halfway through.

She didn’t buy it, whatever front you are putting on right now is not helping. “I’m being so serious with you, you look like you’re about to pass out.”

You swallowed hard and took a breath, willing your legs not to betray you. “I’m fine. Really.”

She frowned, stepping back but keeping her eyes on you. “If you say so.” She glanced toward the wings, where crew members busied themselves setting up. “Look, the others are asking for you. The act's warming up. We start in thirty.”

You nodded stiffly, turning your gaze back upward, focusing on a tangle of cables dangling near the lighting rig. Your vision blurred at the edges for a moment, but you blinked it away. You couldn’t afford to slow down. Not now. Not when the theatre was hanging by a thread. Not right fucking now.

Jihyo lingered, watching you carefully. “Seriously, you need to sit down for a minute.”

“I’m fine.”

“Bullshit’” she insisted, stepping forward and catching your arm before you could move. “Look at me.”

You met her worried eyes. She was always so steady, so grounded. Your anchor when everything else threatened to fall apart. But right now, even she looked shaken.

“I’m fucking fi—”

And your knees buckled.

Jihyo’s grip tightened instantly as she caught you before you hit the floor, lowering you gently to the stage. The clipboard slipped from your hands, clattering against the wood like a gunshot.

“Hey! Hey, stay with me!” she said urgently, shaking your shoulder.

Your breath came in shallow, panicked gasps. The dim lights spun overhead, and a cold numbness crept from your fingertips, crawling up your arms.

“Someone call an ambulance!” Jihyo shouted, voice cracking. "Hurry up!"

You tried to speak but the words tangled in your throat. Darkness edged your vision.

“Stay awake! I’m right here!” Jihyo’s voice was the last thing you heard before the world went black.

The room smelled like antiseptic and too many flowers.

When you came to, the world was blurred around the edges. The hospital ceiling looked just like the theatre’s light grid — white, rigid, oppressive. You tried to sit up but immediately regretted it, your head pounding like it had stored weeks of pain just for this moment.

“Don’t,” someone said.

The voice was familiar. Soft. Gentle. A little out of breath.

Your eyes adjusted, and slowly, familiar silhouettes came into focus. Was it Mina? Did she actually come?

….it was Jihyo, eyes red. A few staff. Some of the newer performers. Even the grumpy lighting tech you always butted heads with. All hovering like anxious bees around your bed.

You blinked at them, ignoring the disappointment in your tone. “What… what are you all doing here?”

“Waiting for you to wake up, dumbass,” Jihyo mumbled, brushing their nose. “You scared the living shit out of us.”

"I'm…not dead though…?" "You're very close to be, boss."

A chorus of relieved laughter rippled around the room, but it didn’t lift the heaviness from your chest. You searched the crowd, eyes scanning. You don't know why you looked around for her anyway.

You thought it was finally time to let her go until the door open. She walked in like she hadn’t been gone a day.

The same dark coat, buttoned neatly to the collar despite the early spring warmth outside. Hair smooth, the kind that didn’t give the wind permission to move it. Her expression was the same as the last time you’d seen her — cool, unhurried, eyes deep enough to reflect every question you wanted to ask but would never answer them first.

But somehow you can see the slight trembling on her lips, the grip on the coat sleeve with her delicate hand that is tighter than usual, the small impatient tap of her foot.

Mina.

She didn’t look at anyone else. Not Jihyo, not the actors, not the crew members leaning against the far wall. Her gaze locked on you from the moment she stepped through the doorway, and for her, the rest of the room may as well have been furniture.

There was a stiffness from the others. Mina either didn’t notice or didn’t care. You could feel the tension crackling like static in the air. Everyone knew what she did. Everyone saw what she left behind.

You tried to speak, but your throat was too dry. “Mina—”

“Later,” she said, calm and clipped, leaving no space for argument.

Her eyes flicked once toward the others, then back to you. “Out.” It wasn't loud. It wasn't even sharp. But it had weight and the room responded to it.

"Are you seri—"

"Jihyo, it's ok." You stopped her, summoning all of your power to. "Can I have a moment with Mina, guys?"

"Bu—"

"Please…?"

Jihyo sighed, loud and reluctant. Then the room began to clear. Your staff shuffled out, muttering and avoiding eye contact. You sat up slightly in the bed, wincing, watching as the door clicked shut behind the last person. Mina remained standing by the foot of your bed, fists clenched at her sides, throat bobbing.

Only then did she let her gaze settle on you again.

Up close, her face was exactly the same as you remembered — controlled, unshaken, every emotion buried just deep enough that you could only guess. If she’d missed you, you wouldn’t see it. If she’d been worried, she wouldn’t let it show.

She stood there like that for a long moment, then finally spoke. “…you idiot.”

The words were quiet. Too quiet for the hallway to hear. But her voice carried a faint tremor that you weren’t sure you’d ever heard from her before.

Then her knees gave out and she fell to her knees at your bedside. Not sat. Not crouched. Fell. To the point you are sure her knees bruise from that.

“Mina, are you-” you gasped, but she shook her head violently, both hands clenching the bedsheet like it was the only thing tethering her.

You finally took a proper look at her eyes. They weren’t cold. They weren’t indifferent. They were shattered. So shattered.

“You think I didn’t hear?” she continued, low but quick, as though saying the words any slower would let them unravel her. “About you skipping meals? About the hours you’ve been pulling? About the fact that you…” She cut herself off, jaw tightening. “Do you even understand how stupid that is?”

You blinked, unsure if the haze in your vision was from fever or disbelief. “You left.”

“I know.” She swallowed, eyes locked on yours like she was daring you to look away first. “I thought you’d be better without me.”

You stayed silence.

“…I thought if I left, you’d rest. I-I thought if I left, maybe you’d finally put yourself first. But you didn’t.” Her hands trembled as they gripped the blanket draped over you. “You got worse. You—god dammit, you collapsed.”

“Mina…”

“I’m so stupid,” she murmured, a tear sliding down her cheek. “Y-you made me who I am. You protected me. You believed in me when I didn’t even believe in myself. And all I did was leave.”

You tried to shake your head, but she kept going.

Her voice shook, and tears started rolling down her cheeks. Quietly at first. Then faster. More frantic. She buried her face in her palm, soft sobs muffled, her breath catching and hitching as the flood finally broke loose.

“I kept telling myself it was for the best. That bigger stages meant I could make you proud. Make my biggest supporter proud. That maybe you'd… you’d finally stop pushing yourself so hard.” Her shoulders shook, her voice barely holding together. “But I was just being a piece of shit. Running away when things got hard. From you. From everyone.”

"Mina—"

And then it happened. Her voice rose.

She looked up at you then, wailing. “But hearing you like that—hearing you fall in front of everyone—I’d rather just burn out completely and die than let that happen again.”

For anyone outside, the sound must have been jarring — the calm, unreachable Mina breaking through the wall she’d built around herself, her voice spilling out raw and uneven.

Inside, mascara streaks ran down her face. Her lip quivered. Her perfectly done makeup was a mess — but she was still Mina. Still beautiful. Still yours, in some impossible, broken way.

You couldn’t help it. Tears slipped from your eyes too, and you reached out, brushing her cheek with the back of your hand. You choked out a laugh through your tears, finally noticing her attire underneath the coat. “Ya, you ditched your act tonight? Can't believe the Sharon did just that.”

She nodded against your arm, still clutching the sheet like a lifeline. “I couldn’t sing. Not if I didn’t know if you’d ever… wake up.”

"I don't die that easily…" You reached out, hand weak but steady enough to touch her hair. Her soft, raven-black hair. She leaned into the touch like she had been waiting years for it.

And then it hit you. A memory. A name.

Sharon. Her stage name. The name that shook the world.

She had chosen it with you. Late one night in the green room, the two of you huddled over a list of names, laughing at the ridiculous ones and pausing at the ones that meant something.

"Sharon" had stuck. A name of beauty, strength, and determination in solitude. You’d said it suited her. And it did.

But now… now you were reminded of something you hadn’t let yourself remember. That underneath Sharon, the siren-like, enigmatic voice that saved your theatre, was still Mina.

Just Mina.

A girl who didn’t know how to cry in front of anyone until right now. Who didn’t know how to tell you that the spotlight was starting to burn. That she was deep down afraid of letting people down.

Even though she looked so composed around everyone else, her hands always shook behind the curtain. That a cold girl like her can be so beautiful even when in glassy tears while leaning to your palm.

“I missed you…” you whispered.

She looked up then, eyes rimmed red, voice breaking apart with every syllable.

“I missed you more.”

And so, for the first time since that quiet, aching parting weeks ago, you both cried together. No pretences. No walls. Just the sound of regret and longing, unspoken for far too long.

She wept audibly, and you held her, gently and delicately. And for a moment, just a moment, the world beyond the curtain didn't exist.