We’re sitting close enough to the stage that I can just make out the crew, all dressed in black, smoothly and silently changing out the set in the dark between scenes. I’m amazed to consider all that goes into making a play the seamless experience it is from the perspective of the audience. When the third scene begins, the stage lights go up to reveal my artwork. My pulse races. The small studio stage makes my painting look larger and more vivid than it ever did lost in the canvases of the art classroom, and Zoe’s right about the frame: it has an assertive presence that both contrasts and highlights the art within.

When I glance at Zoe, she’s watching me, a small, knowing smile on her face. When I smile back at her, she leans toward me and nudges me with her shoulder, her eyes returning to the stage. Heat suffuses my body, radiating out from where she touched me.

The scene is a dramatic one, the actors’ energies rising to meet the escalating tension, but I am helpless to take my eyes off my contribution, which serves as a symbol for the main character’s forgotten past, the sense of “home” he longs for but forever eludes him. In this context, my painting is evocative and moving in ways I never could have imagined or envisioned. I marvel at the way Zoe understood that the moment she saw my painting, the way she knew how right it would be. Seeing that juxtaposition between appearances and truth so brilliantly illustrated makes something shift deep inside me. It’s something both Zoe and I understand and live with every day — the ways our outward lives don’t reflect who we truly are.

When I chance a peek at Zoe, she’s riveted by what’s happening onstage, eyes wide, knuckles resting on her lips. I remember that she used to be in plays, and I wonder if she’s sad not to be up there. And even though I love that she’s right next to me, I kind of wish she were acting tonight, because then I could watch her the whole time, and it wouldn’t seem weird if I was captivated by her every word, her every move.

During the short intermission between acts, I try to articulate to Zoe all the ways I’m feeling, but there are too many thoughts tangling in confusion, and I stumble over my words. Zoe is as understanding as ever, but I’m not satisfied. I want to dig deeper into all the ways we seem to understand each other without trying, but I need more time and space — somewhere we can be by ourselves. Gathering all my courage, I ask her, “Do you maybe want to go to Taco Bell after the show?”