backstage

bennoptic, Unsplash

they say theater kids are dramatic but backstage is mostly waiting

waiting with safety pins between your teeth waiting for cues waiting for someone to stop crying in the bathroom waiting for the lights to change waiting to become someone else

nobody writes plays about backstage

about the girl crouched on the floor hemming a costume five minutes before curtain or the boy whispering “do i sound nervous?” like he hasn’t asked the same question every night for two weeks

the audience only sees what survives rehearsal

they don’t see: the cracked compact mirrors the water bottles with names in sharpie the makeup wipes stained gray with old eyeliner the freshman throwing up from anxiety in a trash can while someone else practices harmonies beside her like this is normal

and somehow it is

backstage teaches you how temporary people can be

quiet girls become louder under stage lights popular boys suddenly shake before monologues someone who barely speaks in class can make an entire auditorium go silent

then the curtain closes and everyone dissolves again

there’s this moment after the show ends where nobody knows who they are yet

half the cast still wearing costume pieces fake blood drying on their wrists someone laughing too hard from exhaustion someone already taking off eyelashes in the corner

you look at everyone half-transformed

and realize maybe identity was always just a quick-change costume

maybe everyone is just trying on versions hoping one finally fits

and maybe that’s why backstage feels holy

because for a few hours people stop pretending they were only ever one thing