Showmances are a real thing. The whirlwind of the rehearsal and shows brings people together. Sometimes really closely. Showmances are micro-relationships that typically don’t last longer than the final bow. Or after the closing party. I’ve never had a showmance, or even a showcrush. I’ve seen them not cause trouble, and I have seen them end the cast bond.

We walk in a tight—and loud—pack down Amsterdam Avenue toward Old John’s. Elijah is telling me about something, but I’m too busy thinking about what Jamaal asked me to do. I’ve packed up my feelings about Yaz and put them away, but this just brought them back.

As we pass by a bodega, Justin Sudds jumps out from behind the outdoor refrigerator. “GOT YOU,” he yells while hitting Kelsey with a water gun.

“Dammit,” she yells, playfully frustrated. Our cast is embroiled in a heated game of Assassins. During the lunch break during a long Saturday rehearsal, we walked to the dollar store and got brightly colored water guns. Everyone drew names for targets, and the only rule is you have to hit your target off school grounds. That means preparation, planning, and execution. People have gone to great lengths to hit their target. Waiting for hours outside apartments or gyms.

My target was Elijah, which was easy. Got him the next day. After rehearsal, I waited outside Starbucks and soaked his rusty orange shirt. We made a big, loud scene of it. People standing around were not amused by our antics. I haven’t been hit yet. Whoever drew me hasn’t made their move.

We pile into Old John’s and crowd around the small hostess stand. The smell of bacon and burnt coffee hits my nose immediately. The diner is old-school retro with neon lights wrapping around the walls. The kind of place you might find off a highway in Pennsylvania. But with New York prices. “How many?” Connie, the hostess, asks.

I turn around and count. “Seven,” I say proudly.

“Mr. Popularity over here,” Connie says. After rehearsal, it’s usually just me, Elijah, and Jamaal. Sometimes we have a special guest like Anna or Kelsey. But never seven.

“Actually,” Jamaal says, “there’s eight.”

Yazmin weaves through the crowd and stands next to him.

“Eight it is,” Connie sings, pulling a handful of menus from the rack. We follow her to our table. “What’s the special occasion?”

“It’s the night before tech week.”

“Oh, hell week. I remember those times fondly, and not so fondly.”

“You do?” I ask.

“Yes, dear boy,” she says, maneuvering around a table of elderly people. “I used to be an actress. Turns out, I make more money at this gig.”

I hate when people give up on their dream. I get scared I will someday, too. “You could still act,” I suggest.

She lets out a guttural laugh. “I’ve retired. And this is your table, monsieur.”