She smirks. “Good memory.”

“How could I forget?” I ask. “You made a big deal about not getting to play that fairy queen.”

“Titania,” she corrects. “I was the most talented. I should’ve gotten the part over that skinny blond wench Katie Novak.” She tries to joke, but I can tell all the acting is taking a toll on her. Her eyes are sunken. She gnaws at her lip. “I want to change,” she admits, handing the play to me and pointing to a passage by Lysander.

As I begin to read, she recites it word for word.

“Ay me,” she says solemnly. “For aught that I could ever read, could ever hear by tale or history, the course of true love never did run smooth.” Her eyes swell with tears. “Swift as a shadow, short as any dream, brief as the lightning in the collied night, that, in a spleen, unfolds both heaven and earth, and, ere a man hath power to say, ‘Behold!’ The jaws of darkness do devour it up. So quick bright things come to confusion.” She stops and pulls the book back. “I made a mess of us, didn’t I?” She lowers her voice.

There’s nothing to say, so I nod.

“Do you think things would’ve been different if …” She never finishes the thought. “You know, I decided I’m leaving the animation program. It’s not that I can’t rock it because, obviously, I can.”

“Obviously.”

She clears her throat and avoids making eye contact. “I don’t think Professor McPherson gets me. I don’t know. You think you want something, and then it’s like, ‘Wait, why? Why do I want this?’ I mean, I was making a fucking macabre animation about eggs that could only end with the realization that the dreams we have never actually come to fruition. I was really trying to sell myself something with that one, huh?”

“There’s nothing wrong with trying, Ley.”

“Try living inside my head.” She folds the book between her legs.

I know it’s because she feels the pressure from her doctor parents, who supported her art and acting “hobbies” yet still expected she’d pursue a more guaranteed, “respectable” career path. I guess they were right.

“But,” I continue, “pushing for something you think you should want or have but don’t actually have any desire for? That could only leave you …”

“Scrambled? Like an omelet?” She tries to laugh, but it’s so sad, it hurts my heart. “My dad was happy when I told him,” she adds. “I just keep asking myself, ‘Will I be okay?’ ”

I realize she’s just as fragile as I am. Maybe more so.