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My eyes widen, a protest pressed up against my lips. We can’t do this. We aren’t prepared for this. We haven’t had any training on what answers we’re supposed to give.
‘Just fake it,’ Zayan says under his breath, still refusing to look at me. ‘I’ll agree with whatever answer you give.’
I reply, equally quietly, ‘I’m going to say you replace your cereal milk with apple juice because you enjoy the quirkiness of it.’
The genuine horror in his eyes almost makes me laugh, but I harden my heart to stone. He doesn’t deserve my forgiveness. His face flashes with something unfamiliar, shadowing his eyes.
‘Farah –’ Zayan starts.
‘All right, let’s get started with question number one!’ David interrupts, like he’s hosting his own talk show. ‘Is your co-star a night owl or an early bird?’
The secretive smile on my mouth is so fake it could’ve been painted on with clown make-up. But I pretend to think my answer over before giving it. ‘I’d say an early bird for Zayan.’
‘Night owl for Farah,’ Zayan replies, keeping his tone just as upbeat as mine.
We go on like that for another five minutes, answering hideously easy questions about one another. Can your co-star drive? (Farah, yes; Zayan, yes.) Does your co-star like animals? (Farah, yes; Zayan, only rabbits.) What’s your co-star’s go-to hot drink? (Chai for both.)
‘All right, final question, does your co-star have any rituals before going on stage?’ Anushka asks.
I pause, knowing Zayan doesn’t know the answer to this. No one does. I do my ritual before every rehearsal, and I do it by myself. It’s not something huge, like Sharpay from High School Musical doing her vocal exercises. It’s more –
‘Farah likes to take a moment before going on stage,’ Zayan says, and my head swings to look at him so fast I’m scared I’ve pulled a muscle in my neck. ‘She repeats a mantra to herself, or a prayer. Not exactly sure, because she whispers it to herself. But she does that, and then she comes on stage and kills it.’
How did he even know that? No one knows that. He couldn’t, unless he was watching me. But why would Zayan watch me so intensely?
My heart bruises my ribs with how hard it’s pounding. ‘It’s a mantra,’ I explain to the viewers. ‘An affirmation. Telling myself that I’ve got this, that I’m deserving of this role, that I should be on stage.’
‘And Zayan’s?’ Anushka asks.
I swallow nervously, knowing the answer. I don’t know why. It’s just unearthed itself from the back of my mind, as if it’s unconsciously always been there. As if I’ve been collecting little pieces of Zayan over the last month and storing them. ‘He likes to eat candy before going on stage. A hard candy or a gummy. Something sweet.’
I can feel Zayan’s eyes on me, but I don’t turn to meet them.
I’m too afraid of what I’ll find staring at me.
I take my time packing up and waving off The Tragedies, because I need to think over what happened with Zayan. While stuffing my script into my bag, I find the folder with the contract in it. I pull it out, skimming over the agreement again while making my way out of the rows of theatre seats. It feels heavier than it should for a slim plastic folder and single sheet of paper.
When I finally step out through the doors of the Limelight, the sun has started to set, painting the canvas of the sky in shades of blushing pink and deepening purples. The thick, rainy clouds from before have softened, quieting their tears for the end of the day.
I almost don’t notice Zayan sitting on the steps leading to the theatre. He’s resting his elbows on his knees, his laced hands tucked under his chin, staring out at the street in front of him.
I should ignore him, walk home. I should stick to the plan and throw the contract I’m holding in his face.
Instead, I find myself sitting down beside him. The silence between us is heavy, weighty with tension. The sunset throws shadows over the elegant edges of Zayan’s face. It’s fitting. A puzzle with pieces missing. Something I’ll probably never be able to solve.
‘Are you ever planning on speaking to me again?’ he asks, his tone surprisingly aggravated. ‘Or is this your new way of dealing with things?’ When I don’t say anything, he attempts to goad me. ‘Seems a bit childish, don’t you think? The silent treatment?’
I raise a brow, as if to say, Seems a bit hypocritical coming from you.
He sighs, running a hand through his hair, tangling the waves even more. ‘You’re not supposed to be mad at me. I’m supposed to be mad at you.’
His jaw locks, mask shattered, eyes desperately bright as the light dies around us. ‘I’m the one who had to see the photos of you with The Tragedies, Farah. I’m the one who stayed up at night, scrolling through Instagram, shocked to see my friends all hanging out with one another and excluding me. Do you know how juvenile I felt? How incredibly stupid it felt to be that hurt by the sight of you all at an event without me?’
As understanding dawns upon me, my silence finally cracks. ‘You think I purposefully left you out?’
‘Yes.’
‘But you don’t even like The Tragedies!’ I say, incredulous. ‘You said they weren’t your friends.’
