When you share a love for something with someone, you think it’ll bring you closer.
But with Sarah, I was wrong.
Theater didn’t bond us—it broke us.
She wanted what I had, and she didn’t care what it took to get it.
What Sarah didn’t realize, though is that under those lights, the truth always finds its way out.
The Spotlight Was Mine
Landing the lead role was like a dream come true.
I still remember the way my name sounded when Mr. Jenkins called it out after auditions.
“Lauren Emerson, congratulations. You’ll be playing Rosalind.”
It was the kind of announcement that feels like it was meant for someone else, like you misheard it.
Rosalind wasn’t just a character—she was the role. The heroine of our school’s Shakespeare-inspired spring play, a modernized version of As You Like It.
She had wit, charm, and more lines than anyone else in the cast. I spent weeks preparing for that audition—late nights memorizing monologues, recording myself to perfect my delivery.
When I got the part, I thought all that work had finally paid off.
The first person I called was Sarah.
Sarah and I had been inseparable for years, brought together by our shared love of theater.
We were the kind of friends who spent hours rehearsing scenes in each other’s bedrooms, who whispered backstage about what we’d do when we made it to Broadway.
She was my biggest supporter—or so I thought.
When I told her I got the lead, she hugged me tightly and said, “I knew you’d get it. You were born for this.”
But over the next few weeks, her words didn’t match her actions.
Rehearsals started off strong.
Mr. Jenkins, our director, was passionate and demanding, but I loved every second of it. I could feel Rosalind coming to life every time I stepped on stage.
Sarah, cast as my understudy, was a different story.
At first, she seemed happy for me. She stayed late to watch my scenes, giving me tips and feedback as we walked home together.
But then the comments started.
“They’re really pushing you hard,” she said one day after rehearsal. “I hope it’s not too much for you.”
It wasn’t. I was used to pressure.
But the way she said it—like she was planting a seed—made me feel like I was already letting people down.
Another time, after a particularly long rehearsal, she sighed dramatically and said, “You were great today, but maybe don’t overthink the big monologue. I heard Mr. Jenkins say it felt a little… stiff.”
Stiff? That was the first I’d heard of it. Mr. Jenkins hadn’t said anything to me.
Still, I took her advice. She was my friend, after all.
Or so I thought.
A Role Stolen in the Dark
I didn’t realize what Sarah was doing until it was too late.
It started with the little things.
My blocking directions would mysteriously change. “Oh, Mr. Jenkins said you should enter from stage left for that scene,” Sarah told me one day, just before rehearsal.
I followed her advice, only for Mr. Jenkins to pause mid-scene and say, “Lauren, what are you doing? You’re supposed to come in from stage right.”
“Oh, I must’ve misunderstood!” Sarah chirped from the wings, smiling innocently.
I laughed it off at the time, chalking it up to miscommunication.
But it kept happening.
A misplaced prop here, a missed cue there. Nothing big enough to cause a meltdown, but enough to make me look careless.
Then came the rumors.
I heard them secondhand, in the whispers of castmates as we packed up for the day.
“Do you think Lauren’s overwhelmed?” someone murmured. “I heard Mr. Jenkins is worried she’s not keeping up.”
“Sarah said Lauren’s been struggling with the monologues,” another voice added.
It felt like they were talking about someone else. I was working. I was prepared.
But every mistake, every stumble, seemed magnified, like the spotlight wasn’t just on my performance—it was on my failures.
And then, one week before opening night, Mr. Jenkins pulled me aside.
“Lauren,” he began, his tone careful, like he was stepping around broken glass, “you’ve been doing good work, but I’ve noticed some inconsistencies in your rehearsals. Missing cues, misplacing props…”
“I can fix it,” I said quickly. “I’ve been distracted lately, but I’ll—”
“That’s the thing,” he interrupted. “I don’t know if we have time for that. Opening night is next week, and we can’t afford any mistakes. I’ve decided to let Sarah take over as Rosalind. I think it’ll be best for the production.”
I stared at him, my chest tightening. “You’re… replacing me?”
“Only for opening night,” he said, avoiding my gaze. “You’ll still be involved as the understudy. This doesn’t reflect on your talent, Lauren. It’s just about what’s best for the show.”
I didn’t know what to say. My throat felt tight, and the words wouldn’t come.
All I could do was nod, clutching my script like it was the only thing keeping me upright.
That night, I sat on the edge of my bed, staring at the walls of my room. The posters of Broadway musicals felt like they were mocking me.
I thought about quitting. About walking away and letting Sarah have what she wanted.
But as I sat there, replaying the last few weeks in my head, something inside me hardened.
This wasn’t about Sarah. It wasn’t about Mr. Jenkins or the cast or even the audience.
It was about me. About my love for theater, for the stage, for the way it felt to bring a character to life.
I wasn’t going to let Sarah take that from me.
If I couldn’t be in the spotlight, I’d make sure the spotlight shined as brightly as it could. I’d be backstage, helping the crew, supporting the cast.
And when the moment came—when the cracks started to show—I’d be ready.
Because deep down, I knew the truth: Sarah hadn’t earned the spotlight.
And eventually, it would show.
Cracks in the Stage
The energy backstage on opening night was electric—chaotic but alive.
Crew members zipped around, actors whispered lines to themselves, and the faint hum of the audience filled the air. The house was sold out.
I adjusted a prop table for the third time, triple-checking the placement of the goblet for the Act II banquet scene. I didn’t have to do that—it wasn’t technically my job—but I needed something to focus on.
Watching Sarah strut around in my costume, giving dramatic sighs about how “demanding” the lead role was, was too much to bear.
“Lauren, can you help tie my sash?” one of the supporting actors asked, rushing over. I nodded and knelt to fix the costume.
“Thanks,” he said. “You’re really holding this whole thing together.”
His words warmed me more than they should have. At least someone noticed.
Meanwhile, Sarah was lounging in the wings, glancing at her phone like she wasn’t minutes away from stepping into the spotlight.
“You nervous?” I asked casually as I walked past her.
She looked up, smirking. “Why would I be? I’ve got this.”
Her arrogance made me want to roll my eyes, but I bit my tongue. If she thought she could breeze through the performance on charm alone, she was in for a rude awakening.
As the lights dimmed and the opening music swelled, I took my place behind the curtain, headset on. The play was about to begin, and I was determined to make sure everything backstage ran smoothly—even if I wasn’t the one onstage.
The first act went off without any major disasters.
Sarah delivered her lines passably, though her pacing was off, and her gestures felt stiff. The audience didn’t seem to notice—yet.
But Act II was where Rosalind truly came alive. The wit, the emotional depth, the vulnerability—it was the role’s heart, and I knew Sarah didn’t have it.
When the big banquet scene began, I could sense the tension in the air.
Sarah walked onstage, her voice loud but hollow, delivering her opening lines with a forced theatricality that didn’t feel like Rosalind at all.
Then it happened.
During Rosalind’s critical monologue—a moment where the audience should have been spellbound—Sarah froze.
For a heartbeat, the theater was silent. Too silent.
I could see it from the wings—the flicker of panic in her eyes, the way her fingers clenched the edge of the table. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
The other actors shifted uncomfortably, their eyes darting between each other as they waited for her to recover.
The audience began whispering, the uncomfortable murmur spreading like wildfire.
From my spot backstage, I grabbed my script and fed her the first line softly through the headset. “Love is merely a madness…”
But she didn’t hear me. She was too far gone, too wrapped up in her own unraveling.
“Uh…” Sarah stammered. “Love… is… uh…”
I winced. The cast did their best to keep the scene alive, improvising around her blank stares, but the magic was gone.
The audience wasn’t following Rosalind’s journey anymore—they were watching a train wreck.
Mr. Jenkins, seated in the back row, had his head in his hands.
The Star Reclaims the Spotlight
The fallout began as soon as the curtain fell on the final act.
Backstage, Sarah stormed off, snapping at the crew and blaming the failure on everything but herself.
“The lights were too bright,” she said. “I couldn’t focus with all the noise from the audience. The blocking was off.”
No one said anything. The cast avoided her, murmuring amongst themselves about what had gone wrong.
I was gathering props when Mr. Jenkins approached me, his face tight with frustration.
“Lauren,” he said, his voice low but urgent. “I need to talk to you.”
I braced myself, half-expecting him to blame me for some backstage mishap.
Instead, he sighed and said, “I owe you an apology.”
My breath caught.
“I should never have taken you out of the role,” he admitted. “That was a mistake. I see that now. Sarah… well, she’s not Rosalind. But you are. And I’d like you to take over for the rest of the performances.”
For a moment, I didn’t know what to say. Relief, vindication, and a flicker of anger at how easily he’d dismissed me before—all of it bubbled up at once.
“I’ll do it,” I said finally, keeping my voice steady.
“Thank you,” he said, clapping my shoulder. “I should have trusted you from the start.”
The next night, I stepped onto the stage as Rosalind.
The difference was immediate.
I wasn’t trying to prove anything or fight for approval—I was just doing what I loved. Every line, every gesture, every emotion felt natural.
The audience was silent, leaning in with every word, completely in the palm of my hand.
When the final curtain fell, the roar of applause was deafening. The cast pulled me forward for the last bow, and I could see Mr. Jenkins in the wings, clapping with a proud smile.
Sarah stood further back, her face pale. She clapped too, but it was slow and forced, the kind of applause you give when you have no other choice.
After the show, as I was packing up my things, Sarah approached me.
For a second, I thought she might apologize, but instead, she said, “You got lucky, you know.”
I turned to face her, keeping my voice calm. “It wasn’t luck, Sarah. It was preparation. Something you might want to try next time.”
Her jaw tightened.
For a moment, it looked like she might say something, but instead, she just turned and walked away, her shoulders slumped, the weight of the truth finally settling on her.
The stage really doesn’t lie.
And that night, it had shown everyone exactly who deserved to stand in the spotlight.