Five minutes to curtain, and I can't breathe.

The supply closet smells like industrial cleaner and forgotten props. Mops lean against the wall like disappointed parents. A bucket sits in the corner, and I'm grateful for it because I've already thrown up twice.

Three hundred and twelve shows. Three hundred and twelve times I've walked onto that stage and become someone else. Someone who doesn't shake. Someone who doesn't count her breaths in eights because that's the only rhythm that keeps the panic at bay.

Tonight makes three hundred and thirteen.

I can hear the orchestra warming up through the walls. The muffled scales, the clarinet doing that thing that sounds like a cat in heat. The audience filing in, programs rustling, that specific murmur of anticipation that used to make me feel alive.

Now it makes me want to disappear.

"Miss Santos?"

I freeze. The door's open. Someone's standing there, and I must look like hell because I can see the shock register on her face before she schools it into something neutral.

Jules Rivera. My understudy. The one who knows every word, every step, every breath of this role because it's her job to be ready in case I fall apart.

Looks like she got here just in time.

"I saw you come in here," she says. Her voice is steady. Calm. Like finding your lead actress sobbing in a supply closet five minutes before curtain is completely normal. "The stage manager is looking for you."

"I can't."

The words come out ragged. Broken. Nothing like the voice that fills the Belmont Theatre eight shows a week.

"I can't do this."

She doesn't gasp. Doesn't run for help. She steps inside, closes the door behind her, and suddenly the supply closet feels smaller but also somehow safer.

"Hey." She crouches down, when did I end up on the floor?, and she looks at me. Brown eyes, warm, with flecks of gold I've never noticed before. "Look at me."

I do. Because I don't know what else to do.

"Three hundred and twelve shows," she says. "That's how many times you've done this."

"You count?"

"I watch." A pause. Her expression shifts, barely. "Every night. I watch every show."

I don't know what to do with that information. My brain is too busy trying to remember how oxygen works.

"Your hands are shaking," she says. She doesn't reach for them. Just notices. "That's okay. Mine shake before every audition. Means you care."

"What if I forget the words?"

"You won't."

"What if I trip during the second act lift?"

"Marco's caught you three hundred and twelve times. He'll catch you tonight."

"What if..."

"What if you go out there and do exactly what you've done every single night?" She tilts her head. "What if you're extraordinary?"

I laugh. It sounds hysterical even to me.

"Extraordinary."

"I've watched you." Her voice drops. Softer now, but somehow more certain. "Every night, I stand in the wings and I watch you become her. You make it look effortless. Like you were born for that stage."

"It's not effortless."

"I know."

Two words. Simple. But they land somewhere in my chest, and something unknots in my chest.

"You know?"

"I notice you," she says. "Before you go on. The way you grip the curtain until your knuckles bleach. The way you close your eyes and count something, beats, I think. The way you put that smile on like body armor."

She sees me.

Not Carmen Santos, Broadway's darling. Not the face on the playbills. Not the interview sound bites about loving this role and feeling so grateful and isn't the company just family.

Me.

The mess on the floor of a supply closet, mascara probably running, terror clawing at my throat.

"Four minutes," she says. "That's what you have. You can spend them here, or you can spend them becoming her. The woman who walks on that stage and makes the whole world forget themselves."

"What if I can't?"

"Then I'll go on for you." She says it like it's simple. Like she's offering to grab coffee. "That's what I'm here for. But Carmen?"

She stands. Extends her hand.

"I don't think you need me to."

I take her hand. Her palm is callused, dancer's hands, I think, or maybe guitarist's, and warmer than I expected. She pulls me up, and for a moment we're standing too close in the fluorescent-lit closet, the sound of the orchestra swelling through the walls.

"Three minutes," she says. "Go."

I go.

I don't look back, but I feel her watching me until I turn the corner.

The show is fine.

Better than fine. Something cracked open in that closet, some wall I'd built to keep the panic contained, and instead of letting the terror in, it let something else out.

I hit every note. Nail every mark. The second act lift goes smoothly, and when I take my bow, the standing ovation washes over me like a wave I've learned to ride instead of drown in.

But I keep thinking about her.

About the way she said "I see you" like it wasn't terrifying.

About the fact that she counts my shows.

After the curtain calls, after the flowers, after the cast files back to their dressing rooms in various states of exhaustion and exhilaration, I find myself walking toward the understudies' room instead of my own.

Jules is there, alone. Already changed out of her costume, her street clothes wrinkled like she pulled them from a bag. Her short hair is pushed back from her face, and she's scrolling through her phone, feet up on the counter.

She looks up when I knock on the open door.

"Miss Santos."

"Carmen." I step inside. The room is cramped, nothing like my dressing room with its flowers and cards and the ring light my manager insisted on installing for social media. "Can I..."

"Come in?" She gestures at the cluttered space. "It's not exactly the star suite, but sure."

I perch on the edge of a chair that's seen better days. My hands want to shake again, but for different reasons now.

"Thank you," I say. "For earlier."

"I didn't do anything."

"You did." I swallow. "You... no one's ever found me like that. During a show, I mean. I usually keep it together until I'm alone."

"How long has it been happening?"

The question catches me off guard. Most people pretend not to notice. Ask if I'm okay in that voice that really means please say you're fine so I don't have to deal with this.

Jules just asks. Direct. Like the answer matters.

"About six months." I look at my hands. The tremor is barely visible now, but I know it's there. "After my dad died."

"I'm sorry."

"Thanks." I don't know why I'm telling her this. "It started small. Just nerves before opening nights. Then previews. Then every show. Now..."

"Now you're in a supply closet five minutes before curtain?"

"Something like that."

She sets down her phone. Swings her feet off the counter. For a moment she just looks at me, and I feel seen in a way that should be uncomfortable but somehow isn't.

"Have you talked to anyone about it? A therapist or..."

"I have a very expensive psychiatrist who prescribes me very expensive pills that I'm definitely not supposed to mix with champagne." I laugh, but it comes out hollow. "The show must go on. That's what everyone says. So I go on."

"That sounds exhausting."

"You have no idea."

Silence stretches between us. From somewhere down the hall, I can hear the company laughing, celebrating another successful show. The sounds of a family I'm supposed to be part of but always feel outside of.

"Well." Jules stands. "I should let you get back. Your manager's probably looking for you."

"Probably." I don't move. "Jules?"

"Yeah?"

"Thank you. For not telling anyone. For not..."

"For not what?"

Looking at me like I'm broken, I want to say. For not making me feel like the disaster I probably am. For counting my shows. For seeing me.

"For not making it weird," I say instead.

She smiles. It transforms her face, she's pretty, I realize. Not polished-Broadway pretty, but something with more texture. More warmth.

"Same time tomorrow?" she asks.

I blink. "What?"

"If you need someone. Before the show. I'll be around." She shrugs, like she's not offering to save my sanity. "I'm usually in the wings anyway."

The words sit in my lap like a gift I'm afraid to open. No one offers help without wanting something. That's the first rule of this industry. Everyone's ambitious, everyone's angling, everyone's keeping score.

But Jules just looks at me with those brown eyes and waits.

"Okay," I hear myself say. "Tomorrow, then."

"Tomorrow."

I leave before I can analyze what just happened. Before I can talk myself into believing it's some kind of manipulation, some understudy power play, some trap I should see coming.

Maya's waiting in my dressing room, phone in hand, fake smile plastered on.

"There you are. I've been looking everywhere. Great show tonight, honey. That second act was fire. Now, TMZ wants a quote about the Dating a Rockstar rumors, and I need you to..."

"Not tonight."

Maya stops mid-sentence. Stares at me like I've grown a second head.

"What?"

"I said not tonight." I start removing my mic pack, fingers working on autopilot. "I'm tired. I'm going home."

"But the press..."

"Can wait."

I meet her eyes in the mirror. She's worked with me for three years. She's seen me through breakups, burnouts, and the week after my father's funeral when I performed on autopilot while my heart was shattered.

She's never seen me say no.

"Carmen. Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." I turn back to the mirror, start removing the stage makeup that turns me into someone else. "I just need some rest. We'll handle it tomorrow."

She leaves, confused and probably a little concerned, and I'm alone with my reflection.

The woman looking back at me is exhausted. Dark circles under the makeup. Tension in her jaw that's been there so long it feels permanent. The smile she's famous for nowhere to be seen.

But somewhere in the reflection, I see it. A softness around the mouth. The faintest spark of something I'd forgotten I could feel.

Jules Rivera sees me.

I don't know what to do with that. Don't know if it's dangerous or wonderful or both.

But as I finish wiping away Carmen Santos: Broadway Star and find the tired woman underneath, I realize something.

I want to find out.

"Thank you," I whisper to the empty room. To the woman who will never hear it. "For not telling anyone."

Tomorrow, I'll be terrified again. Tomorrow, the panic will come like it does every night, and I'll count my breaths in eights and grip the curtain until my knuckles ache.

But maybe tomorrow, someone will be standing in the wings who knows.

My phone buzzes. A text from a number I don't recognize.

This is Jules. Got your number from the call sheet. Hope that's okay. Just wanted to say, you were extraordinary tonight.

I read it three times before I respond.

Thank you. For everything.

Three dots appear. Disappear. Appear again.

Same time tomorrow. I'll be there.

I save her number. Carmen Santos doesn't do this. Doesn't let people in, doesn't need help, doesn't count on anyone but herself.

But maybe that's the problem.

Maybe that's what's been killing me all along.

I leave the theater alone, like I always do. The stage door fans are waiting, and I sign playbills and take selfies and pretend I'm fine, I'm great, I love you all so much.

But when I finally get in the car, I look at my phone one more time.

Same time tomorrow.

For the first time in six months, I'm not dreading it.