Kismet | ENGLOT

Chapter 14

Charlotte's POV:

As I turned to walk away from Engfa and her friends, a deep ache settled in my heart. The sting of Engfa's response pierced through me like a cold knife, making each breath feel laboured and shallow. My cheeks flushed crimson, a burning reminder of the embarrassment I felt under the weight of their mocking laughter, which echoed in my ears like a cruel melody.

I'd let myself believe that Engfa's presence in my life meant something—that our connection was genuine. But her response in front of her friends felt like a slap in the face, a cruel reminder of the distance between us. My mind drifted back to the kiss we shared during our first evening at my place, the way she'd looked at me as if I were the only person that mattered. My heart had raced, my hands had trembled, and I'd felt something I hadn't wanted to admit—a spark, undeniable and terrifying. It was a kiss that lingered in my thoughts long after that night. But now... had I only been a convenient practice partner for her?

The nagging thought of that kiss stirred an unsettling feeling within me—one that filled me with dread. I realised I couldn't face being alone with her again, so I insisted our rehearsals take place in the living room, always in the presence of my dad. It wasn't that I didn't trust her; rather, it was the uncertainty of my own feelings and impulses that plagued me, leaving me wary of the magnetic pull she held over my heart.

But now, all I felt was the need to protect myself. That was why I'd decided to stop meeting her for rehearsals, I needed to create as much space from her as she made it clear that she wasn't mine to hope for. She had her world, and I had mine. I needed to build a wall around my heart, to keep my feelings hidden and protect myself from the ache of wanting something that wasn't mine to hold.

I brushed away a tear and took a shaky breath, whispering to myself, "It's better this way. I can't let myself fall for someone who won't fight for me."

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The theatre buzzed with energy as we gathered in the dimming afternoon light. It was four o'clock, and every corner of the stage was alive with last-minute preparations. Only a week remained before opening night, and you could feel the tension and excitement hanging thick in the air. Everyone seemed determined to make this play our best yet, pouring their hearts into every detail.

The crew hustled, adjusting lighting and setting up props, while others were busy organising costumes. I caught glimpses of scenes being rehearsed in every nook—the sound of lines whispered, gestures refined, and occasional bursts of laughter from cast members caught in funny mishaps.

Engfa, Marima, Jeff, and I were ushered into a corner of the stage for costume fittings. The seamstress bustled around us, pinning fabric and making quick adjustments. I stole a glance at Engfa, who was deep in conversation with Marima, her face focused as she listened.

As I stood still, arms outstretched while the seamstress pinned the last hem on my costume, my mind was anything but calm. Since our last encounter, I'd done everything possible to avoid being close to Engfa. It felt like every time I looked her way, that aching memory of her words and laughter with her friends resurfaced, cutting deeper than I wanted to admit. And yet, here we were—working side by side as leads, bound by this role, forced to interact even when every instinct told me to distance myself.

I stole a glance at her, catching only the back of her head as she stood in front of the vanity mirror, checking her costume. It should've been a relief that today wasn't about rehearsing lines or sharing the stage in scenes that required us to act close, intimate even. Instead, today was just about costumes and props, a day that demanded less from us. But somehow, avoiding her felt even harder in this less-scripted setting.