Act III: A Break
The morning after her last class with Catherine, Lucy woke refreshed. She had finished the semester with strong grades, earned nods of approval from her professors, and—against all odds—made friends in the improv club.
On the train home for summer, Lucy leaned against the window, phone in hand, thumbing through Instagram. The first profile she tapped was Joseph’s.
Joseph’s Profile
The feed startled her.
Not the booming landlord, not the boy who commanded a room with laughter—but a student, as ordinary as any she had sat beside in lecture halls. Group photos of the Improv Club, yes, but between them: Joseph in a crisp suit at some award night, captioned “Bachelor of Finance.” Lucy blinked; she had always imagined him a theatre kid, or maybe an athlete. Finance. He looked… serious, his tie slightly crooked, smiling in that restrained, professional way.
She swiped further. Grainy snapshots of city streets at dusk, a stray cat crouched beneath a motorbike, a half-empty coffee cup beside an open laptop. Little fragments, mundane and unpolished, like peeking into a private drawer.
Lucy paused, unsettled. For the first time she saw him not only as the exuberant president of the Improv Club, but as a boy with deadlines, commutes, maybe even doubts. A boy living a parallel life, not so different from hers.
Bella’s Profile
Then Bella’s page. Lucy’s breath caught.
Post after post unfolded like a world Lucy had never dared imagine. One photo showed Bella in a gym - leggings, a tank top, her hair damp with sweat as she gripped the handlebars of a spin bike. The background was cluttered with mirrors and neon lights, other students pedaling in blurred focus.
From that picutre, somehow Lucy heard Bella’s voice, sharp and hoarse with laughter, barking orders over pounding music: “Faster! Louder! Feel your heart burn!” In Lucy's imagination, sweat flew from Bella’s brow like sparks, her energy so bright that it lit up the whole room.
Another photo showed Bella in a cocktail dress, glittering sequins catching every shard of light. She tilted her head back, laughing with a champagne flute in her hand, surrounded by men and women who looked at her.
"Who the hell are you, Bella?" Lucy couldn't help asking.
Before she could even grasp the thought, the next image struck her like a blow—one she knew she would never be able to forget.
Bella sprawled across a bed in an oversized white shirt, bare beneath the fabric. The collar had slipped low, exposing the curve of her shoulder, the pale line of her collarbone. Her hair was loose, tumbling wildly as if she had just rolled over, too careless to tame it.
There was no caption, no clever filter, no staged intention. The photo itself was raw, brazen. Her gaze met the camera without hesitation—steady, unflinching, a look that seemed to strip the viewer rather than be stripped.
It was not coy. It was not posed. It radiated a sensuality that felt effortless, unstudied, the kind born of someone who inhabited her own body fully. As though Bella were saying: Here I am. Look if you dare. Touch if you can.
Lucy stared at the screen, dazed. Her own photos—carefully framed, polite smiles, neat clothes—suddenly seemed like something from another universe. Bella's images clung to her like perfume, intoxicating and inescapable.
Bedroom Improv
That evening, while her parents busied themselves in the kitchen, Lucy closed the door to her room. She set her phone on the desk, let a burst of jaunty jazz spill from the speaker, and stood barefoot in the small square of carpet.
For a moment she simply breathed, recalling Catherine’s voice—“Exhale. Inhale. Take the space.” Using the only tool she had learned, improv, to understand who Joseph and Bella were, and perhaps, might be.
She began with Joseph. Not the Joseph of the club, but the Joseph she had just discovered online—years older, dressed in his stiff suit, the Bachelor of Finance. Lucy squared her shoulders, straightened her spine, and paced her small room as if it were a glass-walled office. She jabbed a finger at invisible subordinates, voice clipped and commanding: “Buy. Sell. Faster—don’t waste my time.” For a moment, she almost believed herself powerful, her little room transformed into a high-rise boardroom.
Then the image slipped. As she paced, her eyes caught the memory of another photo from Joseph’s feed—a stray cat crouched beneath a motorbike, its eyes sharp in the dusk. The thought intruded, derailed her banker’s authority.
Her voice softened into a mocking purr, her shoulders hunched, and suddenly she was the cat instead, prowling along the edge of her desk, mewling with theatrical exaggeration. She arched her back, swiped at invisible shadows, let her movements grow sly and erratic. The stern banker had vanished, replaced by a creature of instinct and whimsy, lifted straight from Joseph’s world and made her own.
The banker-cat routine left her breathless, half-laughing at her own absurdity. She collapsed onto the bed, chest rising and falling, and for a moment the room was quiet again.
Her breath still quick from the stray cat’s antics, Lucy straightened and laughed under her breath. Joseph’s world—banker, commuter, even his scrappy street cat—she could piece together, picture by picture. He was, in the end, graspable.
But then her gaze slid back to the phone on the desk, the glow of Bella’s profile still waiting. Without quite deciding, almost against her will, she rose again. This time she would try Bella.
First came the gym trainer. Lucy dropped to the floor, palms pressed flat, her body lowering in shaky push-ups. She forced herself to bark commands into the empty room—“Ten more! Don’t quit now!”—but the sound felt hollow, her voice too soft, more pleading than commanding. She paused mid-push-up, confused. The photo had shown Bella sweating, determined, but Lucy couldn’t tell if Bella’s grin there had been serious or mocking, joy or defiance.
Then she tried the socialite. She straightened her spine, tilted her chin, raised an imaginary glass to the air. She even added a laugh, quick and sharp, as if surrounded by admirers. But it came out brittle, more like a cough. In the picture Bella had seemed dazzling, yes, but also amused, like she was laughing at the room as much as with it. Lucy tried to find that balance and failed—the mirror only showed a girl posturing, unsure whether to play queen or impostor.
Bella’s expressions weren’t clear signals; they were layered, unreadable, as if every smile hid a dare, every gesture carried a secret joke.
Lucy scrolled back to the photo—the one she couldn’t forget. Bella sprawled across a bed in an oversized white shirt, collar slipping from her shoulder, hair untamed, gaze direct, as if daring the camera to flinch.
Lucy stood before her mirror, heart hammering. She tugged at her own shirt, pulling it loose at the collar, exposing more of her collarbone than she ever had. She let her hair down, shook it out.
She tried to drape herself on the bed the way Bella had, stretching one arm above her head, tilting her chin toward an imaginary lens. At once she felt ridiculous. Her back stiffened, her legs at odd angles, her expression caught between pout and grimace. She let out a strangled laugh, half-mortified, half-thrilled.
She tried again. She lowered her eyes, parted her lips slightly, tracing the outline of Bella’s expression. The image in the mirror stared back at her—not Bella, not quite Lucy either, but someone in between. Someone braver.
Her cheeks burned hot, but she couldn’t look away. For the first time, she felt the strange intoxication of performing not for others, but for herself.
A Family-Friendly Conversation
The dining room. Warm light. The smell of braised pork and steamed rice lingers. Lucy sits straight-backed, hands folded, eager to share her semester’s triumphs. Her parents face her across the table. The air feels homely yet stiff.
Lucy (brightly): I did well this semester. My professors praised my work, and I even made some new friends at The Improv Club. Everyone was so nice! Joseph..
Mother (interrupting, coldly measured): You have ten fingers, Lucy. Ten fingers kill ten flies at once. Anything beyond that is excess.
Lucy (forcing a smile): But there are only two flies right now.
Mother (snaps): Don’t argue. Especially not about performance—it doesn’t suit you. (She turns to Father.) Isn’t that right?
Father (hesitant, soft): Well… Lucy’s grades are good. Meeting more friends can be good for her.
Mother (pressing, voice sharp): Friends, yes. But performance? Do you know what kind of people actors are? Do you know what kind of life they live?
Lucy (blurts, desperate): They’re the people I feel most connected to!
Mother (ignores Lucy, to Father): You know her condition. She’s not suited for this. If she were healthy, perhaps. But as she is—
Father (sighs, gentle, almost pleading): Don’t mention that at the table. The doctor warned us. And she’s been off medication for months. She managed her classes, even made friends. Isn’t that enough?
Mother (lowers her voice, cutting): I saw what she was doing in her room. I didn’t like it.
(She finally turns to Lucy, eyes narrowing.)
Mother: The entertainment world is filthy. Actresses are used, coerced, forced into beds with old men.
Lucy (shakes her head, flustered): Actresses? No, no, I never thought of that. Improv is different—it’s not television or cinema, it’s just… fun.
Mother (to Father, dismissing Lucy): Speak to her.
Father (leans forward, soothing tone, almost paternal): Your mother may be right. Perhaps performance isn’t your path. You’ve always been such a good daughter—diligent, patient. Perfect for accounting, where steadiness is needed. Performance requires boldness, extroversion. Perhaps you’re not built for it.
Lucy (voice cracks, but firm): But I can learn! I just want to try something different— isn’t that how people grow?
Father (soft smile, cruel in its certainty): Maybe there's something we were born with. Look at little Amy next door—so outgoing. She can mimic Lady Gaga, Madonna—flawless. Can you?
Lucy (defiant, trembling): I can!
Father (gently, like a test): Then sing Bad Romance.
(Lucy swallows. She opens her mouth, voice thin and uneven.)
Lucy (murmurs, broken): Ra-ra-ah-ah-ah… Roma-roma-ma…
(Her voice falters, cracks. The room falls silent. Her cheeks burn crimson. She lowers her head, ashamed, hating the sound of herself.)
Father (patting her hand, kindly, devastatingly): See? We must do what suits us. Be clever. Don’t waste your gifts. Your mother only wants to protect you.
(Lucy does not reply. She keeps her head bowed, spoon moving mechanically to her lips, chewing without tasting. The silence presses in. She looks small, smaller than she is, like a patient being fed at the table of her own home.)
A Glinting Stone
That night, Lucy buried her face in her pillow, tears seeping hot and silent. If only she had Bella’s poise, Bella’s gifts, perhaps then she could be more than this.
Sleep took her.
She dreamed she was running along a Nordic lake, water shimmering in the dusk. On the shore lay a glinting stone, smooth and cool in her palm, as though it had been waiting only for her. She carried it home, holding it close to her chest like a secret.
Back at the house, she pressed the stone against the wall, and wherever it touched, light spread like ink in water. She carved a leaf—delicate veins, curling stem—something alive, something that breathed. The stone seemed made for this, as though it was made to draw out beauty where there had been only blankness.
Her father appeared then, not angry but deliberate, a cloth in his hand. Without a word he began to wipe the wall, careful, methodical, erasing each stroke of light.
“Papa, don’t,” Lucy pleaded. “It is beautiful!”
But his hand did not pause. The leaf dissolved into nothing, leaving only the bare wall again, pale and cold.
Lucy clutched the stone tighter, the glow leaking between her fingers, certain, achingly certain, that it was meant to create, even if no one else believed it.
Closed Curtain
Lucy woke with her pillow damp, her chest tight, anger burning hot beneath her ribs. She hated them—hated the way they smiled gently while cutting her down, hated how they spoke as if she were something to be managed.
But then, from the quiet of her room, she heard voices drifting from the living room.
Mother: “Do you want Lucy back on medication?”
Father: “Of course I don’t. But… maybe it’s what’s best for her condition.”
Mother: “Best for her? You didn’t see what I saw. The way she was in her room, — it was just like the time she first got sick.”
Father: “Shouldn’t we ask the doctor first?”
Mother (snapping, voice cracking): “Haven’t we asked enough over the years?”
There was a pause, then a sound Lucy had never expected—her mother’s breath hitching, the faint catch of someone fighting tears.
Through the wall, Lucy felt her anger falter. The sharp, cold mask of her mother suddenly revealed itself as something else: brittle, terrified, worn thin by years of worry.
Her fists loosened, the heat in her chest collapsing into a weary stillness. She wasn’t happy—how could she be?—but she told herself her parents had carried too much already. They worried because they cared, even if their care felt like chains.
So she resolved to try. To eat properly, to sleep on time, to keep her body steady and her mind disciplined. To stay away from the things that might make her stray—improv, imagination, anything that threatened to pull her off the path.
Next semester, she would return stronger, calmer, and healthier.