You hand me my cue, eyes like the edge of a scene we can’t cross, and I laugh at the wrong time just to keep the distance we’ve lost. The lines taste too honest, so I slow them down on my tongue, pretend they’re someone else’s words, pretend we’re not the ones. So we act like it’s not love, like the script is in control, like the light in your voice isn’t reaching my soul. We act like it’s not love, but the truth won’t stay above— we’re just two people trying to act like it’s not love. The director says, “Hold that look,” and I swear he doesn’t know what he’s done, my chest is a stagehand dropping props and running for the exit run. Your hand finds mine too easy, like we’ve practiced this for years, and I’m caught between my character and the weight of what appears. So we act like it’s not love, like the script is in control, like the light in your voice isn’t reaching my soul. We act like it’s not love, but the truth won’t stay above— we’re just two people trying to act like it’s not love. We bow when the lights go down, smile like the audience saw nothing strange, but I’m still wearing the moment like a costume I can’t change. Maybe the hardest role is the one that’s already true, and the longest-running lie is pretending I don’t love you. So we act like it’s not love, like the scene will fade away, like the next act won’t remember what we couldn’t say. We act like it’s not love, but the truth won’t rise above— we’re just two people trying, just two people lying, to act like it’s not love. Your hand leaves mine, but the feeling stays.
