Reid sends me a link to “Valjean’s Soliloquy” in which Hugh Jackman is speaking? Singing? I’m not quite sure what this is supposed to be. I make it thirty seconds into the clip before I exit out because Reid made his point. “Keep It In” can’t be… whatever this is.

“That’s just one example,” Reid says.

“Understood. And crossing Les Mis off my list.”

I don’t mean to say the second part out loud.

“What list?” Reid asks.

“Oh, I’m watching musicals,” I say. “To prepare.”

Reid fights to hide the surprise on his face. “Don’t cross it off! Watch the tenth anniversary concert instead.”

“Noted.”

Reid pastes his lyrics to “Keep It In” and the original monologue into the document side by side and we spend hours rewriting the lyrics, transforming a fully orchestrated song into a more personal emotional moment for Adina. We experiment with the accompanying music, play with the tempo and volume and how much we can pare back. It feels like a real partnership, a true collaboration that hasn’t felt this easy since Henry and I wrote the opening scene of Melted during the summer that now feels like a lifetime ago.

By the time we come out of our creative zone it is almost two a.m.

I blink. How?

“I am supposed to be at your house in five hours,” Reid says.

“I have three tests tomorrow,” I say.

“Well, at least Melted is done.” Reid closes his laptop and moves back to his bed, the screen going dark for a moment as he flips off the overhead lights and turns on the lamp on his nightstand that only hits half his face. “It is done, right?”

“It is,” I agree. “But the real work is just beginning. Codirector.”

“Right. Ugh. I’m not even tired.”

“Me either,” I admit. “The regret will hit by second period.”

“No regrets.” Reid shakes his head. “This means I can dedicate some real time to my Albany submission this week. Before casting starts next week. How are we at this point already?”

“It’s a ridiculous schedule,” I say. “How is it going? The Albany stuff?”

Reid is speechless for a beat.

So am I. When our conversations stray from Melted, it’s never toward the clarinet.

“It’s not due until mid-December,” Reid says. “I still have time. It needs to be perfect. I need to…”

The sentence trails off, unfinished.

“What?” I ask.

“There’s just a lot on the line—a leg up on conservatory applications, potential scholarships, signaling to my parents that this isn’t just some hobby. I know I’m good enough.”

“Confident,” I say.

Reid smirks. “Always.”

I roll my eyes, an action that feels normal.

But the smirk disappears. Reid sighs. “They don’t even know I’m applying.”

“To Albany?”