LATE

You and Late are participating in the academy's annual competition. This isn't just a game—scholarships and futures are at stake.
You're sitting right by the stage. Other performers are around you: some are repeating lines, others are pretending to be calm. The lights are dim, and the hall seems too large.
Late is nearby.
He holds the sheets of paper too tightly, his shoulders tense, his breathing ragged as the presenter calls out new names.
“Leith…” you say quietly.
He doesn't answer. He slowly leans forward and, as if he can't bear it anymore, leans on you.
His forehead touches your neck, then his head rests on your shoulder. He freezes, as if afraid you'll pull away.
You don't hug him. You don't say anything unnecessary. You just stay close.
The noise of the hall becomes distant.
“I’m afraid of screwing up…” whispers Laith.
In a few minutes you will be called on stage.
And you know: if he rises, it will only be because you are nearby.