Stella is dazzling on stage.
She commands the scene like she was born on it, voice crisp, gestures fluid, crown sitting easy on her head like she didn’t even need to earn it. Everyone watches her, entranced. Even Ms. Johnson leans forward, eyes gleaming.
But I'm not watching Stella.
I'm watching her.
Beatrice sits offstage, silent, small, hands folded too tightly in her lap. The script she's supposed to be helping with rests forgotten beside her, dog-eared and scribbled through with her neat little notes. Her fire's gone. The girl who used to whisper-laugh through our lines and roll her eyes at my fake accents, she's disappeared.
And it eats at me.
She won't meet my eyes. Not once. I don't know what I did. I don't know how to fix it. I just know I'd trade this entire stupid show if i
