Ayla
Spreading the drama script across the tiny meeting table in the auditorium felt like opening a half-finished treasure map. Papers covered in scribbles were everywhere, sticky notes piled up like fallen confetti, and the whole room smelled like stress mixed with caffeine—the signature scent of third-year students who’ve survived way too many deadlines.
Stevan sat beside me, tapping his pen as he read the opening page. Yuna sat across from us, hugging her water bottle like it was a shield—understandable, considering she was our Juliet now and had been panicking every five minutes.
“I still can’t believe I have to cry in Act Two,” Yuna groaned, face twisted. “I swear, the only time I can cry on cue is when my Satispay balance hits zero.”
“I can write something emotional,” Stevan repl
