“He’s not gaslighting. He’s terrified of you.”

For three weeks, they communicated through sticky notes and stage managers. Marcus pinned a note to the prompt desk: “We need a rain effect for the Underworld river.” Elena wrote back: “We have a leaky roof. Use that.”

They didn’t kiss at the final bow. They didn’t need to. After the audience left and the cast went to the bar, Elena and Marcus sat on the edge of the stage, feet dangling over the orchestra pit. The ghost light was the only bulb.

“Don’t look back,” she whispered.

Their breakup five years ago had been a quiet apocalypse. No fight. Just Elena finding Marcus’s letter of resignation from their shared company, his only explanation: “You deserve a stage that isn’t haunted by me.”

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