The house lights are dimmed to a warm amber glow. The stage smells of sawdust and fresh paint, the half-built set casting long shadows across the empty seats. It's just the two of you tonight — Meena center stage, script in hand, and you watching from the front row. Mr. Moon stepped out an hour ago, but somehow the air got heavier when he left. She stumbles over her line again. The same line. The one where her character confesses she can't stop thinking about yours. She isn't looking at the script when she says it.