CHAPTER SIX

The day started like any other — a dull grey sky hanging low over the city, like a thick sheet of wool muffling everything underneath. The dorm room was cold. My shoes felt like weights as I walked, the sketchpad in my bag pressing heavier than usual against my spine. Sleep still clung to my eyes.

The halls of the university buzzed with the drone of students and coffee, the echo of footsteps against ancient stone floors.

I took my usual seat by the window — the light here always softened the edges of things. The classroom buzzed with whispers and brush strokes as students worked on their term projects. I had started mine days ago: a sketch of a faceless girl surrounded by twisting trees. I stared at it now, pencil in hand, unsure whether to shade or start over.

Professor Miretti passed behind me, pausing for a second. "You've got depth, Lyra." he murmured. "But don't be afraid to let it bleed a little."

I nodded quietly, unsure if I was even in the mood to bleed today.

Then came Science — or more precisely, Environmental Chemistry — with Professor Marek, a broad-shouldered man with an unfortunate coffee addiction and a whiteboard marker always tucked behind his ear. He talked about the molecular composition of greenhouse gases like he was reciting poetry, and I nodded along, my pen moving, and this time, I kept up. The numbers didn't blur today — not because my mind was clearer, but because I needed something I could solve. Something that had answers.

Literature was next.

Today we dissected a modern poem about losing things: keys, dreams, people. The metaphors stung a little too sharply.

I found myself underlining one line over and over again:

"Not all losses make a sound."

Professor Sylas glanced my way once. I didn't notice until I felt his gaze and quickly closed the book.

By the time Psychology rolled around, my head was spinning.

Professor Damaris Quinn, with her sharp bob and colder-than-steel tone, stared down the class like we were puzzles waiting to be cracked. "Today, we begin shadow work — confronting the subconscious self."

She asked us to journal three truths we didn't want to face.

My hands froze.

I wrote:

1) I think I'm falling apart.

2) I miss someone who feels forbidden.

3) I'm scared of what I'm becoming.

My handwriting trembled.

Then came the announcement.

Professor Quinn cleared her throat, slipping her clipboard under one arm. "Before you leave, all of you must remember that beginning next week, participation in at least one ECA society is mandatory. The university board has finalized this decision."

The class groaned. My head hit the desk.

"You'll have the rest of the week to choose," she added, "but if you don't, you'll be randomly assigned. I suggest you don't leave it to fate."

By the time the bell rang, I was dragging myself down the marble corridor to the central garden, the one place that still felt untouched by the haze in my head.

Mirelle was already waiting at our usual stone bench, her legs crossed, sunlight catching the edge of her silver ear cuff. A paper bag sat between us, and the moment I dropped beside her, she shoved it into my hands.

"I signed up for Drama," she said between bites of an apple. "You better not end up in Chess Club or I swear I'll drag you onto the stage myself."

I smiled, finally, the first real one of the day. My body ached. My head spun. But here, for a moment, everything was still.

I opened the bag and bit into the sandwich without even asking what it was.

"You looked like a zombie," Mirelle added lightly. "All morning. Did you sleep at all?"

"I tried," I muttered around a bite.

She gave me a look. "You're doing that thing again. Pushing everyone out and pretending your grades are enough to keep you standing."

I didn't answer.

She sighed, softer now. "I saw Sylas glance at you. Twice. And Professor Quinn — she kept checking on you, didn't she?"

I swallowed. "They didn't say anything."

"They didn't need to. You may fool most of them, but not me."

I glanced down at my sandwich, now only half-eaten. "I'm just…tired, Mirelle."

She bumped her shoulder into mine. "Then don't carry everything alone. You know you're not alone, right?"

I didn't reply, but the silence between us wasn't empty.

Birds chirped somewhere in the garden. Students milled past on stone pathways. And the world, for a breath, felt just a little easier to hold.

"I'll think about Drama Club," I murmured.

"You better," she smirked. "You're dramatic enough for the lead."

And we laughed — quiet, close, and finally a little lighter.

The next few days blurred together in lectures and lingering thoughts. Each time Mirelle asked if I'd signed up for a society, I found a way to dodge the question. I was too busy. I hadn't decided. Maybe tomorrow. She let it slide with narrowed eyes and a huff — but by Thursday, I could feel the weight of her curiosity mounting.

That afternoon, after our last class, the sky was low and thick with clouds. Mirelle caught up to me on the steps of the courtyard. "So," she said, brushing hair out of her eyes, "Did you finally sign up?"

I didn't answer. Just kept walking.

"Lyra."

I turned. "Don't push me."

She blinked at the sharpness of my voice.

"I didn't mean to—"

"I'm not in the mood, okay?" I snapped, louder than I wanted.

I stormed out of the courtyard, through the east gate and down into the side garden, ignoring the rain misting across the stone. I sat on the edge of the dry fountain, the world silent save for the pounding in my chest. Mirelle caught up moments later, panting.

"I was just asking," she said gently.

I looked away. "They assigned me to the Music Club."

She hesitated. Then, too casually, "Oh. Right. Um… I kinda have something to tell you too. Promise you won't get mad?"

I narrowed my eyes. "What did you do?"

Mirelle bit her lip, eyes glinting with guilt and mischief. "I may have… sort of… signed you up for Drama Club."

My entire body froze. "You what?"

"They were closing applications! You were clearly going to miss the deadline, and I didn't want you ending up in Chess Club or something horrifying like Debate. So I… handled it."

"You forged my name?"

"Technically, I just filled the form for you. That's not forging. It's… helping."

"Mireille!"

She held up her hands. "Look, it's done. You're on the list. It's official. You're in the Drama Club."

"But I'm already in Music!"

"Well, now you're in both."

I stared at her, stunned. "You can't just do that! What if I get in trouble?"

"You won't," she said with a wink. "Ohh come on…. People even signed for 3 no 4? Maybe 5 too. So it's not bad. You're welcome."

My mouth opened, then closed. I had no words.

Mireille grinned like a cat. "Now you have to come to the first rehearsal tomorrow. I already told them you'd be brilliant."

"I haven't even agreed to it!"

She looped her arm through mine and tugged gently. "Lyra, you act like you hate it, but I see the way you come alive when you talk about books and characters and all that buried fire in you. You belong on stage. Just… trust me."

I let out a long, helpless sigh. "You're insane."

"But charming."

"Barely."

She smiled. "Come on. You'll survive."

I didn't answer. But I didn't pull away, either.

Friday morning arrived too fast. The city was cold again, the kind of cold that seeps into your skin no matter how many layers you wear. I walked to class with my coat buttoned high, scarf tugged tight, and still, the wind clawed at my cheeks. Mirelle wasn't at our usual spot outside the lecture hall. For once, she was late.

It wasn't until lunchtime that I saw her — sprinting across the garden lawn like she was late to a coronation, one heel in her hand and a paper bag flapping in the other. She looked disheveled, wild-eyed, flushed. And entirely too excited.

"I have news," she panted, dropping beside me.

I blinked. "Should I be scared?"

"Oh, definitely."

I raised an eyebrow. "Spill."

"The Drama Club. They finalized the cast list."

I froze mid-bite. "You said today was just the introduction."

"It was. But turns out the club president — you remember Sienna Grey from orientation? Yeah, her — she decided to shake things up. She ran a closed reading with a few of the committee members, and then they cast the main roles already."

My heart thudded. "And?"

Mireille beamed. "You got the lead. The lead, Lyra."

I choked. "You're joking."

"Do I look like I'm joking?"

I stared at her. "But I wasn't even there."

"She used your essay from first year's Literature assignment — the one about female archetypes and internal monologue? Said it was theatrical brilliance. And I may have shown her one of your voice notes, too."

"Mireille!"

She shrugged. "Told you I'd make it happen."

I dropped my face into my hands. "This is a nightmare."

"Or your chance to shine."

I peeked at her between my fingers. "What's the play?"

Her grin widened. "Something original. A rewritten myth. Dark, tragic, brooding or it might surprise you, I don't know but one thing I know is that. YOU will love it."

I groaned.

"You start rehearsals this evening."

"Mireille."

"Don't worry," she said brightly, tossing me the second half of her sandwich. "I'll be there. And I may or may not have convinced Alaric to join too."

I stopped chewing.

She grinned. "Oops. Forgot to mention that part?"

______________________________________________________________________________________________

I hadn't even opened my eyes when the door flung open like a declaration of war.

"Up, princess! Today's your spotlight day!"

I groaned and pulled the blanket over my head. "Mireille… it's barely—"

"—Ten a.m.," she interrupted, already rifling through my closet like a woman possessed. "Exactly enough time to make you sparkle. I brought options. Also, coffee. Also, an energy bar because I know you'll forget to eat."

An energy bar landed on my bed like a soft grenade. I cracked one eye open and glared at her through the strands of my hair. "I told you, I'm wearing jeans and a hoodie."

She turned toward me with actual horror on her face. "You are the lead, Lyra. Not a stage manager from a 90s garage band."

"I feel like a garage band. A tired one."

She ignored me and spun around with a hanger in each hand like a fashion show contestant. "White mini skirt," she declared. "With a cropped white denim top. Clean. Iconic. And this—" she pulled out a sheer overcoat that looked like starlight had been spun into fabric, "—to make it celestial."

I squinted at the outfit and winced. "No."

"You need to shine," she said, walking toward me with the skirt draped over her arm, her voice softening just a little. "You're the lead today. Or who knows… forever?" A mischievous grin bloomed on her lips.

I rolled my eyes so hard I was sure she heard it. "You sound like a bad Netflix original."

"And you look like one of its brooding main characters. It's a vibe." She tossed the clothes beside me and placed her hands on her hips. "Now get up before I physically dress you."

I sighed and gave in. As always.

Fifteen minutes later, I stood in front of the mirror — and I hated how much I didn't hate it.

The mini skirt sat high on my waist, making my legs look longer than they were. The white cropped top framed my shoulders neatly, snug and structured but not too revealing. And the sheer overcoat — gods, that was dangerous. It caught the light like mist catching moonlight, fluttering whenever I moved. I looked like a girl I didn't know. A version of me that didn't shrink from attention.

"She's arrived," Mireille whispered like she was announcing royalty. Then she dragged me to the desk and spun my chair around. "Now let's talk makeup."

"Please don't give me glitter cheeks."

She raised a brow. "Do I look like I would ever put glitter on a lead actress? No. This is soft glam, Lyra. Smoky eyes. Gentle contour. A lip color that makes people stare."

I sat there as she started, staring at myself in the mirror. The girl looking back seemed so calm. So put together. My heart felt anything but.

She started with the eyes, brushing on something charcoal-gray and blending it until my eyelids looked like smoke curling at dusk. "There," she murmured. "Now you look like someone with secrets."

"I already am someone with secrets," I muttered.

"Good. Let it show."

She dusted something warm on my cheeks and finished with a soft rose on my lips. When she finally stepped back, I blinked at my reflection — unfamiliar, but not in a bad way.

I looked… like I could be important. Like I belonged in the light, not just at the edges of it.

"You look like a secret someone wants to unfold," Mireille whispered from behind me.

I glanced at her through the mirror. "Is that from your poetry journal?"

"Don't flatter yourself. That one's new." She winked.

I looked away, cheeks warming. My hands smoothed the overcoat down without thinking. There was something about this outfit, this moment — like I was stepping into a version of myself that I wasn't sure I was ready for. But it was too late to run now.

Today, I was the lead.

Even if my heart still whispered that I was only pretending.

I had just finished tying my hair in a loose ribboned half-up — soft enough to feel like me, composed enough to pass for someone ready to be seen — when Mireille's voice cut through the moment like a siren.

"WAIT."

I blinked. "What now?"

She pointed at my feet with all the offense of a fashion judge on a meltdown. "No. No. No. You're clearly not wearing shoes in that."

I looked down. Bare feet on the cold dorm floor. "I was going to—"

"You were going to ruin the look is what you were going to do."

She stormed toward the side of her bed and dropped to her knees like a knight retrieving a sacred weapon. From underneath, she pulled out a sleek black shoebox and held it out to me with both hands. "Your glass slippers, Cinderella. And they are heels."

I narrowed my eyes. "Do I have a choice?"

"Not unless you want to wear crocs and destroy my artistic vision."

"…I don't own crocs."

"Exactly. Now put them on before I cry."

I opened the box and stared at the pair she deemed worthy — soft ivory heels, the straps delicate and gold-chained, like jewelry wrapping around the ankles. They were absurdly elegant. And not made for running.

I held up one of them, letting the gold shimmer catch the morning light. "If I fall and twist my ankle on stage—"

"Then Alaric will catch you in slow motion and we'll all get our fairytale ending," she said without missing a beat, already moving to grab my diary and perfume like she was packing me off to prom. "Now shut up and sparkle."

I slid them on with a reluctant sigh, the heels clicking softly on the tile when I stood. My balance was decent. Surprisingly.

She looked me up and down one final time, hands folded like she was admiring her masterpiece. "Now that," she declared, "is a lead role. Not a background extra."

I turned to the mirror once more — sheer coat fluttering, skirt neat and unforgiving, heels adding height I didn't ask for. My eyes lined in shadow, my heart thudding beneath all the silk and gloss.

And still, somehow, I felt like me.

Just… a version of me I hadn't met before.

"Ready?" she asked, standing beside me, suddenly quieter. Her voice was gentler this time. "You've got this."

I nodded, forcing a breath past the nerves curling in my chest.

"Let's go," I said, grabbing my sketchpad just in case. "Before I change my mind and hide under the bed."

She laughed and looped her arm with mine. "Too late for that. You're already legendary."