Look! At the damage three months can do. 
All it took was one season for the director to write us off so inconsequentially. 
And on whose head shall this foolish crown of blame lie? 
Did we both not read the terms before signing the contract?
I am standing before him with a newly written script in my hands, bound by a thread of red.
“There are only two characters in this story,” I say.
“We’ll make the story right this time,” I say. 
He won’t look me in the eye but I can see his disappointment through the cameras. 
He is wondering why I went off script the first time around instead of playing the role I was supposed to play in his head.
And so could I really blame him for choosing to work with an understudy?
When I had followed the script written by else, I had told him he looked good. 
What I meant to say was, “Can I sit in this kitchen light with you? Can you hold me until you break me in two? Until the lights go out?” 
They are playing the strings for the backing track!
Won’t you come back so they will play trumpets instead?
I’m done rehearsing for perfection, done playing a figment of an ideal. 
I hold my beating heart in my palm. It is not a prop. It is not a prop.
My mascara runs. It is not makeup. It is not makeup. 
This is me. It is not method acting. It is not method acting.
There will be no names on marquee signs. 
No standing ovation. 
No flowers. 
No awards. 
There will only be me like it was before. 
I have left the past behind curtains, ready for the next act.

You can either sit in the theatre or join me on scene.