The years had slipped by, and suddenly, it was time—I was auditioning for drama school. My best friend from high school had the same dream, and he’d found a coach to prepare us both.
“We’ll train together,” he said, his voice brimming with excitement.
I nodded, pretending I wasn’t terrified.
The Night She Arrived Like a Storm
The night we met her is burned into my memory. I wore a black ruffled blouse that hugged my neck, a purple polka-dot skirt swaying at my knees. My heart pounded as we stepped into the university building, into a vast, echoing hall.
Then, she arrived.
Like a storm.
Not beautiful, not warm. Sharp angles and piercing eyes. A presence so intense it made my skin prickle. She stood at a distance, studying us like we were figures in a painting she wasn’t sure she liked.
“Who are you?” she asked.
The question sliced through the silence. No introduction, no pleasantries. Just straight to the marrow.
I swallowed hard. Said my name. Said why I was there. Said something—I barely remember what. She watched me. Just watched. For an eternity, or maybe a few seconds, I couldn’t tell.
Then, just as abruptly, she stood. “Come back tomorrow.”
That was it. No feedback. No approval or rejection. Just those three words.
I should’ve been frustrated, but instead, as we walked away, I felt lighter, like I’d passed an invisible test I didn’t know I was taking.
The Second Meeting
The second meeting was different. More exercises, fewer words.
She had us close our eyes, feel the space around us, and describe it in detail. I let myself sink into it, breathing in the room, tracing its contours in my mind. When I opened my eyes, I realized—I had painted it perfectly with my words. Every detail, spot on.
I turned to my friend, expecting to see the same sense of wonder on his face. But he struggled. Again. His mind wandered, unfocused.
By the third session, she called us in separately.
A week later, I learned the truth: he wasn’t coming back.
“She told me to try something else,” he admitted, shrugging. “Guess I’m not cut out for this.”
The words felt heavy in the air. He left, and I stayed.
The Teacher, The Student, and The Silence Between Us
Something changed after that. Our sessions stretched longer. More intense. More personal. I started waiting all week for that small window of time with her.
I gradually realized how lonely this woman was—so isolated in her tiny studio apartment, where she had lived since she was eighteen. I imagined her there, drinking tea in the silence, lost in old scripts and fading memories.
Somewhere along the way—without meaning to—I slipped under her skin. Became more than a student. A daughter? A sister? A friend? I don’t know what I was to her, but I was something more.
She told me stories—about pain, about passion, about life’s unforgiving hands. Her voice, always measured, always controlled, sent chills down my spine. And yet, she spoke with such intensity that I could feel her words, like whispers of wind against my skin.
One day, she exhaled a truth so raw it made my breath catch.
“These moments with you,” she said, staring at the floor, “are the only color in my life.”
Something in me ached at that. I smiled, but deep down, I felt the weight of her loneliness pressing against my ribs.
The Moment That Shifted Everything
Then, unexpectedly, guilt crept in. I felt guilty for the life that seemed to pour over me in torrents during our sessions.
How had I become this important to her? And why did it feel like too much?
I started pulling away. Just a little. Just enough to create space. But she noticed.
“You’re hiding,” she told me one day, her voice sharp, unrelenting. “You’re clinging to masks.”
She was right. And she wasn’t having it.
One by one, she peeled them off, stripped me bare until I had nothing left to shield myself. I stood there, exposed under the weight of her gaze.
And then—light.
For the first time, I saw myself. The real me. The flaws, the beauty, the sharp edges and the soft ones, all laid out before me. I had been playing roles my whole life, and now, here I was, face to face with the truth.
Vulnerable. Uncomfortable. Free.
I don’t know when I stopped fearing it. When I stopped fighting it. But I did.
And I became.
Not a student. Not a performer.
Just me.
