There's always that moment. The moment you panic. You think, 'This is wrong. They're all quiet. What am I doing?' Then, you hear your cue. You take a breath, in and out, and walk out of yourself.

You act.

You aren't a normal, teenage, nobody. You aren't a star, waiting for fame and glory. You aren't worried about school or the dance or this weekend. You have become someone else.

The stage lets you escape. Bright lights tease your vision, leaving purple dots dancing through the audience. The fake trees and buildings falter slightly, threatening to collapse. But you don't see them. You see the forest at midnight. You see a busy high school hallway. You see Ancient Greece fade into the distance. Your best friends suddenly don't stand there anymore. They become their characters, just as you aren't yourself anymore.

You and your character are one.

They aren't lines, but things you'd obviously say. It's as simple as breathing. The applause fades in and out; gasps and laughter punctuate your unforgettable tale. You catch a glimpse of a face you know and drink in their rapture, throwing the energy into making your character more alive and real.

The final note is hit. Curtain call comes. You slowly begin to regain yourself. Friends and family meet you in the hall, laughing and praising your every move. You catch yourself quoting the play, or laughing your character's laugh.

The stage is empty. The audience gone. You leave, laughing with your fellow actors, back to being just friends. You’ve regained your own body and story.

But you think back to the stage. The lights. The moment you started to feel truly alive, immortal, beyond human.

Your character smiles softly in the back of your mind, never truly leaving. They remain a ghost of who you once were, and where your heart will always be: the stage.