Act I: Love at First Sight

Lucy was an accounting student. In class she always sat near the front, her notebook neatly lined, her hand shooting up whenever the lecturer posed a question. Her answers were precise, her tone composed, as if she had rehearsed them the night before. When group discussions began, she leaned in with practiced interest, nodding, underlining, filling margins with tidy annotations.

Lukcy liked her annotaitons: "They are pretty, and fitting!".

Her classmates admired her diligence, yet kept a certain distance. There was something in her manner - too intent, too tightly wound - a seriousness that seemed out of place.

Lucy, for her part, found them equally puzzling. Their laughter struck her as shallow, their drifting attention a kind of weakness. She smiled when courtesy demanded, but behind it she wondered why she alone seemed to be acting in a different script.

Still, she persisted. Equation by equation, ratio by ratio, she pressed herself into the shape of a perfect student.

Until, one afternoon, the numbers suddenly getting blurred, and through the open door of the hall came a sound that jarred her concentration—laughter. Loud, unrestrained, entirely at odds with the quiet discipline of the lecture.

When class ended, her steps should have taken her to the library. Instead, as though nudged by some invisible current, they drifted—hesitant, reluctant, yet curious—toward the room at the end of the hall, where that laughter lived: The Improv Club.

First Encounter

She hadn’t planned this. Her mind was still buzzing with tonight’s assignments—formulas to memorise, chapters to review. Yet her feet had brought her here, and now she stood at the threshold, caught between guilt and curiosity.

The room was alive. A few students were in the middle of a scene, voices loud, arms flung wide in absurd gestures. Others laughed from the sidelines, calling out prompts, encouraging with playful shouts. The air was warm, humid with energy, their faces open, their bodies unafraid to look ridiculous. Compared to the stiff rows of her lecture hall, the difference was dizzying.

Joseph, the president of the improv club, stepped forward, his grin disarming, his voice a booming invitation that seemed to sweep her into the circle before she had a chance to retreat. Bella, a first-year computer science student who had only recently joined, mirrored the welcome, her expression unguarded, her presence calm but confident. They felt—different. Less like students burdened with grades and futures, more like people who had found a space where they could simply exist.

For a brief, impossible moment, Lucy felt it: the thought that perhaps this was where she belonged, that this chaotic, reckless laughter was the world she had been missing out all along. The thought bloomed—and then, frightened by its own daring, she crushed it quickly.

But by then, it was too late. Somehow she was inside the circle, Joseph already in character as the booming landlord, Bella slipping easily into the role of a nosy neighbour, and Lucy herself—awkward, trembling—cast as the poor tenant who could not pay her rent.

Joseph (landlord, chest puffed out): “Rent! Where is my rent? This is the third month! Do you think I run a charity?”

Lucy (tenant, startled): “I—I—I… I’ll pay next week, I promise—”

Bella (as the nosy neighbour, leaning in conspiratorially): “Oh, Mr. Landlord, I saw her buying cookies yesterday. Fancy cookies! Clearly she has money. She just doesn’t respect you.”

(Joseph gasps in mock outrage, pointing at Lucy like a judge about to deliver a sentence.)

Joseph: “Cookies! You dare eat cookies when you owe me rent?”

Lucy (blurting out): “They—they were on sale!”

Bella (smirking, circling Lucy like a detective): “On sale? Lies! I checked the supermarket flyers. They weren’t discounted at all.”

(Gasps from Joseph. Lucy looks cornered, her face flushing as she tries to think of an excuse. Then, without warning, Bella breaks character—her body twists, and she launches into an exaggerated dance: wild hip sways, arms flailing, spinning like a puppet on broken strings.)

Joseph (quick to adapt, clapping to her rhythm): “Oh no! The neighbour’s curse has begun again. Every time she smells lies, she dances!”

(The room bursts into laughter. Bella twirls closer to Lucy, who freezes, eyes wide. Joseph claps louder, chanting like a priest banishing spirits.)

Joseph: “Tenant, only you can stop her! Confess! Admit your guilt!”

Lucy (stammering, voice cracking): “I—I admit nothing! I… I only wanted cookies—”

(Bella suddenly spins to a stop, staring directly into Lucy’s eyes with mock ferocity. Lucy bursts into a nervous giggle, forgetting her role entirely. For a beat, she just stands there, caught in the current of their energy, half-terrified.)

The scene collapsed into laughter, but for Lucy, the air was still trembling, as though something inside her had cracked open.

That night at home, Lucy calmed herself. She sat hunched over her books, her forehead pressed hard against the page. She copied the same formula three times, then ripped it out and began again. She whispered into the paper, almost a prayer:

“Tomorrow, I will be good and focus on what actually matters. I will.”

Playing Daughter

But the next day, when the final bell rang, her feet betrayed her. Again, she found herself outside the club room.

Bella wore silver earrings this time, her hair tied back neatly, the shine catching every flicker of the light. Lucy found herself staring at Bella, her gaze clinging as if to fix her posture.

That evening, the game was simple: play a family. Joseph slipped easily into the role of a father, puffing his chest and lowering his voice with exaggerated seriousness. Bella, without hesitation, became the mother—her tone sharp one moment, tender the next, a theatrical rhythm that made the room ripple with amusement. And Lucy—Lucy was the daughter.

At first, she played it clumsily. Her voice cracked when she called Joseph “Dad,” her lips stumbled over “Mom” when she looked at Bella. But then, as Bella drew her close and let Lucy’s head rest against her shoulder, something shifted. The warmth of skin, the steadiness of breath—it felt absurd, almost embarrassing, yet unbearably comforting. A warmth she had never known how to ask for.

For a fleeting instant, she let go. She allowed herself to sink into it, into the fragile illusion of belonging. It was a child’s game, yet her chest ached as though it touched something raw.

And then—the scene ended. Joseph clapped his hands, breaking character with a grin. Bella laughed and stretched her arms. Lucy jerked back to herself, her spine stiffening, her hands clutching at her books as if they were evidence of some theft.

The laughter still echoed around her, but inside, Lucy felt the cold snap of guilt, as though she had trespassed into a happiness she was never meant to have.

That night, a message from Joseph lit her phone. The vibration rattled the desk like a warning bell.

The phone shivered again. She let out a choked sound, grabbed it as though it were burning her, and hurled it to the far corner. For a moment she stood there, trembling. Then, as if afraid it might still whisper to her, she retrieved it, switched it to silent, and buried it deep under her pillow like contraband.

Panting, she seized her accounting textbook and slammed it open. The neat columns and formulas glared back at her. Desperate, she lifted the heavy volume and brought it down against her head with a dull thud, as if to knock the temptation out. Once. Twice. She pressed her forehead into the paper, whispering half-curses, half-prayers.

Then, methodically, she began to copy. Line after line, chapter after chapter, her pen scratching in furious discipline. Her shoulders stiffened, her face hardened, and the frantic trembling ebbed into mechanical precision. By dawn she had forced herself back into the shape she knew—an exemplary student, the girl who always had the right answer, the girl who never strayed.

After that night, Joseph did not message her again. The silence was almost a relief. Lucy told herself she had survived it—that she had resisted the devil’s lure. The semester rolled on, assignments completed, exams prepared. She moved through her days with the steadiness of someone who had sealed a crack in the wall.

And for a time, she believed she was safe. Safe from him, safe from them, safe from The Improv Club.

The Gaze

Months later, on a breezy afternoon, Lucy had almost forgotten the improv club. The weeks had blurred into assignments, late-night study sessions, and the dull rhythm of lectures. She carried her books across the campus square, thinking only of the exam schedule tacked above her desk.

Then she noticed a swell of voices. Students were gathering, clustering in a loose semicircle. A temporary stage had been set up, and laughter rippled through the air—light, contagious, pulling even strangers to stop and watch.

Curious despite herself, Lucy drifted closer. At first she thought it was some cheerful end-of-term showcase, another harmless performance meant to lighten the mood before finals. Her lips even twitched into a small smile, ready to enjoy the noise from the safe distance of a spectator.

But then she saw them.

Joseph—commanding the stage with his easy grin. Bella—animated, sharp, the kind of presence that drew eyes without effort. The sight hit her like a sudden plunge into cold water.

For a heartbeat, instinct told her to turn, to slip back into the current of the crowd and vanish before they noticed.

And yet—something held her still. A strange, stubborn curiosity rooted her to the spot. Part dread, part pull, as though some hidden thread bound her to the stage. Against her better judgment, Lucy stayed, her breath caught, her heart thudding as she watched.

Joseph suddenly straightened, throwing his arm wide with theatrical command: “Bella!”

His voice cracked like a whip, then softened into a grin. His gaze swept the audience deliberately, a game she recognised now—the familiar trick of improv: draw someone in, pull the crowd closer by singling out the most withdrawn, the shyest, the one who least wanted the spotlight.

Bella followed the cue. Her eyes scanned the crowd, hawk-like, sharp and merciless in their hunt. Students tittered nervously, ducking behind each other. Then—her gaze landed on Lucy.

For a moment, time fractured.

Lucy’s body jolted as though caught stealing. Heat surged into her face. Her hands shook, clutching her bag, but her eyes—traitorous, trembling—stayed locked with Bella’s. In those three unbearable seconds, everything collapsed into contradiction: the shame of being exposed, the terror of being seen, the guilt of leaving them without saying goodbye. Yet beneath all of it, another current swelled—an aching recognition, a secret hunger to be chosen, to be pulled into the circle rather than left at the edges.

Her breath caught. Bella’s eyes were not cruel, not mocking, just steady, direct, as though asking something Lucy had no words for.

Then, mercifully, Bella looked away.

Bella didn't pick Lucy. Relieved, Lucy could escape now. She broke into a run, heart hammering, her legs carrying her out of the square before the applause could follow. She fled to her dorm, slammed the door.

Tears came hot and fast. Her chest convulsed with each breath, as if something poisonous had already entered her blood. She pressed her palm against her mouth to stifle the sound, but the tremor would not stop.

Between gasps she whispered: “Why won’t you let me go?”

Her phone lay on the desk, screen glowing faintly. She reached for it as though it burned, pulled back, then reached again. A sick dread tightened her stomach—the same terror as touching a substance she knew would ruin her, yet could not resist.

At last, trembling, she opened Joseph’s old message. Her fingers hovered, then moved with dreadful slowness, each keystroke a betrayal, each letter a surrender.

She typed, haltingly, as though carving words she had no right to speak:

“See you tomorrow.”