"ᴛʜᴇ ǫᴜᴀʟɪᴛʏ ᴏғ ʙᴇɪɴɢ ᴘᴏᴡᴇʀғᴜʟʟʏ ᴀɴᴅ ᴍʏsᴛᴇʀɪᴏᴜsʟʏ ᴀᴛᴛʀᴀᴄᴛɪᴠᴇ ᴏʀ ғᴀsᴄɪɴᴀᴛɪɴɢ."
•3rd POV•
Teenage individuals wandered the large stage room of their school's theatre, some holding papers and others talking to friends, few where tinkering with equipment behind the curtains.
All wearing elegant clothing from dresses, to suits, skirts, tights, tuxedos, and glass shoes.
But they all had one thing in common, upon their faces, everyone wore masks that covered only their upper faces, concealing their identities to their acquaintances.
Each one was different, but all where either colour died white or black, beautiful designs carved into them.
This was the eleventh grade Halloween show, each student had the chance to pull their own performance to show off their unique talents, meaningful voices, or brilliant theatre (dancing), without anyone knowing who they where.
And none other than Wyatt Oleff had the courage to express what his heart had been screaming for years, ever since he'd met the one and only Jaeden Lieberher.
•Wyatt's POV•
My breathe caught in my throat, I leaned against the corner of the mirror I'd been starring into for the longest time, contemplating, like I always did.
My mind fought against my instincts, unsettled and regretful.
"Wyatt, you're up next," a boy named Jeremy had come up to me holding a clip board.
I nodded slowly, clearly hesitating more than ever. The sixteen year old boy noticed this, and tried to lift my hopes, but with no avail.
"You'll do great," he pulled a smile, turning away and trotting away.
I shook my head gingerly, rubbing my forehead
'this was stupid'
'He's probably not even there!'
'Even if he is, he won't care'
'What if he is there?'
'You're gonna break down, and you know it'
'You're such a loser, wyatt'
'He'll think you're disgusting'
'Creep'
'Queer'
'Gross'
Thoughts crammed into my head, overwhelming my mind, head throbbing. In result, my sensory overload disorder kicked in. I growled at myself, tugging on my curly golden hair. My eyes shut tightly, pupils dilated inwards. I must've looked insane to anyone watching.
'He's your friend, he'll understand either way'
I opened my eyes, "Who's number eleven?" someone from the stage crew called out.
I paused for a short moment, feeling the adrenaline course through me, crucially slow and painful with a hint of pins and needles.
"Here,"
I finally replied, darting behind the curtains that stood on stage, in front of the huge audience that was hidden from me.
"Okay, now, you know what you're doing? Do we have the right sound track?" Jeremy approached me for the second time, babbling on while I was still shaking, staring blankly at the red fabric in front of me.
