Chapter 1:
Elias Moreno had learned how to walk without sound.
It wasn't literal—he was no dancer—but it was the way he moved through rooms like a ghost in a pressed uniform: school blazer sharp, shoes polished, spine straight. Quiet enough to earn praise, perfect enough to avoid attention.
On the first day of senior year, he stood in the hallway of Halcyon Performing Arts Academy, staring at his name already written in block letters across the auditorium's cast list board.
Elias Moreno – Romeo.
Of course.
He didn't smile. He didn't frown either. He just nodded once, polite and unreadable, as other students jostled past him with squeals of excitement or groans of disappointment. Someone clapped him on the back. He didn't catch who. He gave the right response anyway.
"Congrats, man."
"Thanks."
He turned away before anyone else could talk to him. Praise was its own performance—he could hit the marks blindfolded by now.
In truth, Elias hadn't even wanted to audition. But Mr. Kessler had cornered him after spring showcase, brow raised and voice low: "You're doing it. We're not letting your senior year vanish behind Mozart etudes and honor society pins."
So here he was. Romeo. Again. Another spotlight. Another script. Another mask.
The halls of Halcyon were humming louder than usual. Not just post-cast-list chaos—there was a new name murmured between lockers like a prayer or a threat.
"Did you see him?"
"The transfer."
"He's in Theater III already? Who the hell gets fast-tracked like that?"
"I heard he went to a school in New York. Like real stage work. Off-Broadway."
Elias barely registered the voices until he heard the name attached to them.
Rowan Chen.
And then, like the universe was on cue, someone bumped into him near the stairs. Not roughly—deliberately. A pause in movement. A press of shoulder against shoulder. And when Elias looked up, it was like looking into a mirror that had never learned how to lie.
The boy's hair was cropped short on the sides, dyed ink-black, with a slash of color at the fringe—something like violet. His uniform was technically within code, but the collar was loose, one button undone like he didn't care if it shocked someone. A camera dangled from his neck. Not a phone. A real camera. Film.
He looked at Elias like he already knew him.
"You're Romeo," the boy said.
Elias blinked. "I... yeah."
"Of course you are." The boy's smile was crooked, not mocking, but knowing. "I'm Juliet."
The pause stretched long enough for someone's backpack to knock into Elias's leg. He barely felt it.
"Oh," he said, quietly. "I didn't know casting was... that progressive."
"Neither did they," Rowan replied, amused. "But I auditioned like everyone else. Figured they'd stick me as Mercutio. Kessler must be feeling wild this year."
Elias didn't know what to say to that. He just stared at Rowan's eyes, which were impossibly dark and somehow defiant even when calm.
"Cool," he said lamely. "Well... I'll see you at rehearsal."
"You already are," Rowan said, and brushed past him, whistling something off-key.
Later that night, Elias sat in his bedroom with the lights off.
The house was silent—his parents still at Wednesday night church group. He had told them he needed to focus on college apps. That wasn't a lie. Just not the whole truth.
In the glow of his desk lamp, he opened his leather-bound journal, the one his father had given him for Christmas last year.
A tool for spiritual discipline, his father had said. For devotionals. Confession. Reflection.
Elias hadn't written in it once.
Tonight, he did.
> I met Juliet today.
But he's a boy. And I don't know what I felt when he looked at me.
Maybe it was nothing. Maybe it was everything.
Maybe I'm just tired.
Maybe I'm not.
He closed the journal before the ink dried.
And for the first time in a long time, Elias prayed.
Not to be good. Not to be perfect. Just to be still.