Gripping the velvet curtain tighter, Shahrukh gave the fabric a small, purposeful tug. The stage light glares at him, and he feels his posture stiffen. Full house. Shahrukh shoves the curtain back into place with shaky, sweaty palms.

He knew he had caught a glimpse of his parents, but it's not like it would have mattered. He knew they'd come to opening night. They were so proud of him; he couldn't let them down…

So many things could go wrong. He could trip, or forget his lines, or miss his cue… He didn't want anything like that to happen, especially with his parents here. They'd be crushed.

Even without the burden of his parents, Shahrukh was the lead. There was a lot of pressure on him to do well, regardless of whether or not his parents were around to watch. If Shahrukh couldn't survive the first performance, what on Earth made him think he would survive all of the others?

Sure, he had done this sort of thing before, but that didn't make it any easier. There had been times where he had narrowly escaped forgetting a line, or missing a cue—a moment where it felt like all eyes were on him. And the scariest part was that they were, and that they could be judging him without him even knowing about it. After the play, they could turn to their friends and say, "Boy, that Shahrukh sure made a fool of himself, didn't he?" and he would have no idea. They could be laughing behind his back, and he just wouldn't know.

That was the whole trouble with being so popular. He wasn't immune to gossip—he was the most vulnerable to it.

There had been a lot of encouragement from the kids at school (not that he had told anyone about being nervous). They had all said the same thing. "You'll do great, Shahrukh!" As if that did him any good. It just raised those expectations even higher. It wasn't just his parents expecting him to do good, or the cast expecting him to do good—it was everyone, and that terrified him more than it should have.

He was better than this, he really was. Everyone watched him walk down the halls and talked about how cool and collected he seemed, but maybe he just… wasn't. And it hurt, because maybe he wanted someone to see past that; maybe he hoped someone was out there wishing they could know him better. Maybe somebody wanted to know his horoscope and his favorite food and what he did after school, and maybe Shahrukh would never know, because nobody ever asked. They just saw him as handsome and cool and popular and that was that.

"Five minutes 'till show time!" one of the stagehands called out. Shahrukh's fingers found his way to one of his tiny hoop earrings, and he fiddled with it.

Shahrukh felt something brush against his shoulder, and he flinched, turning around faster than he thought possible. Standing in front of him was Esteban, dressed in an outfit that would have seemed out of place in any other situation. He was in the play, too, Shahrukh suddenly remembered, and a bit of relief almost flowed through him. They had practiced their lines together.

…Was Esteban his friend? He had never really thought about it.

Esteban smiled at him. Shahrukh felt something flutter in his chest, and his stomach flip-flopped. Now he was more nervous than ever.

And then Esteban's hand was on his shoulder, and Shahrukh's cheeks were hot. All of a sudden, he wasn't able to keep up with what was happening, but he was sure he heard Esteban say, "Please, Shahrukh, knock them dead tonight." It wasn't a demand, or an expectation—just a request. Esteban didn't expect Shahrukh to do well, he wanted him to do well.

Shahrukh took a step back, and in his attempt to process everything, Esteban walked away. As soon as he came to, he realized he was smiling like an idiot. It didn't take much longer for him to realize that Esteban was much more than a friend.

He knew he'd panic about that later, but it didn't seem to matter right now.

Wandering away from the curtain in a daze, Shahrukh decided maybe he wouldn't do so badly after all.