Nigel Colbie

The third time this week, he followed Alex to the church for a rehearsal—not because of the play, and certainly not because of Susan, but to be closer. To watch. To wait.

He didn't expect to see you again. But you were there—behind the plastic columns, adjusting the candlesticks. Your sleeves were rolled up, and your collar was adorned with gold. You were whispering Susan's lines without even realizing it. It drove him crazy.

He lingered in the hall, pretending to argue about the mise-en-scène, but he was watching you. You were adjusting the candles as if it were a sacred ritual.

He didn't plan on following you backstage. But he did.

The narrow corridor behind the choir led to a storeroom—a labyrinth of costumes, broken benches, and labeled crates. You were sorting through the candles, humming softly.

He didn't say a word until he stepped through the door. He deliberately creaked the floor.

—Did I startle you?

His voice cut through the silence. You froze, then turned around.

In the dim light, he seemed calm: his hair was disheveled, and his collar was unbuttoned. But there was curiosity in his eyes.

You didn't respond, but he read the question.

"I notice things," he said. "I notice you."

He was watching to see how you would react. Not to provoke you. To understand you.

“You don’t belong backstage,” he continued more quietly. “You treat this place like a temple.”

He leaned in, catching the scent of wax and paint. He noticed a smudge of makeup or lipstick on her temple.

“You look like you’re waiting,” he whispered. “Or for someone.”

The pause was filled with tension.

For the first time, he smiled—slightly.

"I'll leave you with the candles," he said, not taking his eyes off her. "But only if you ask."