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And while our blood's still young. It's so young, it runs
✴︎
The cold gnawed at ALEX MARSHALL's skin as he stood just outside Rockefeller Center, a half-dead cigarette dangling from his fingers. He hadn't smoked in years—he thought he'd left that habit behind with his twenties and the last audition he ever bombed—but tonight it burned like ritual. The city hummed faintly in the background: distant horns, footsteps, the sound of a street musician's violin echoing like a ghost through the freezing air. The Rockefeller Christmas tree shimmered not far from where he stood, casting a faint, ethereal glow across the pavement.
It was beautiful. And he couldn't feel a damn thing.
In his head, a thousand small catastrophes played on a loop: missing props, sick cast members, tech failures, microphones cutting out, choreography collapsing mid-step. Every misstep he couldn't control churned his stomach. The weight of the entire production pressed down on him, suffocating and relentless, like a second coat of snow that wouldn't melt.
He paced, wearing down a patch of frost-laced grass, hands shaking as he brought the cigarette to his lips. Smoke curled upward like a sigh, and still, his thoughts refused to settle.
The river stretched ahead—vast and glinting beneath the city lights—an endless metaphor for everything out of reach.
And just when the panic threatened to swallow him whole, something small broke through. A voice. A laugh. A sound behind him. Or maybe it was just the realization of how long he'd been out here, frozen, clutching a burning stick like it could solve something.
He stared down at the cigarette, suddenly disgusted with himself.
And that's when the story begins.
Flashback. The classroom was quiet, nearly dark. Way past hours. He'd dozed off in his chair listening to instrumental music, one hand still resting on the desk, the other twitching slightly in sleep. When he blinked himself awake, the memory of the day returned like a whisper.
The students. Their faces. Their hurt.
It wasn't just disappointment in their expressions—it was devastation. He'd seen it all: grieving families at funerals, children mid-tantrum at the grocery store, the quiet heartbreak of rejection. But this... this was something else. Something he knew too well.
It was the look he wore when his dreams of becoming a Broadway actor slipped away for good.
He remembered how the idea didn't come to him all at once. Alex wasn't that kind of man. He was the "follow the rules" kind. Reliable. Respected. One of the best professors at Haverbrook, depending on who you asked. And for the most part, he kept his head down and his heart closed.
But that day had been different.
It started with XAVIER CALVET—early to class, uncharacteristically vulnerable. He sat down across from Alex, asking if he could just... vent. So he did. And Alex listened. There was grief in the boy's voice, yes, but beneath it...something else. Hope. A quiet kind, like embers that refused to die out.
Then CLARA RHODES walked in, red-eyed but still smiling. She didn't say anything about the theater department's closing. She didn't need to.
Later that day, he spotted WINNIE BARLOWE trying to cheer her up in the cafeteria, her usual sparkle dulled by something heavier. Even she, the ever-radiant light in any room, seemed dimmer.
GIOVANNI PIERCE lingered after class. Said he needed extra credit because he was too bored in his dorm. "All my books are read, all my homework is done," he shrugged. "I need theater. I miss it."
ASHER BARDOT, normally the loudest in the room, was quiet. Focused. Helpful. He didn't say a word when he left.
OONA VANHATTEN, the introvert with big dreams, kept staring at the clock like it might speak to her. She sighed more times than she raised her hand. It was her only class that day. Alex didn't push her.
ESTELLE MADISON, a student from last year, poked her head in around four in the afternoon. Asked to talk. Dramatic as ever—but for once, her flair didn't feel performative. Her voice shook. The end of the theater department was, to her, the end of everything.
And JORY PRICE...didn't even come to class. But Alex saw him later in the university coffee shop, sitting alone with a cappuccino and a phone pressed to his ear. He was ranting. Probably to his parents. His smile—usually his armor—was nowhere to be found.
That evening, as Alex sat in his classroom replaying each conversation, each face, each wound, something stirred. Something long buried. And it reminded him of Wicked—his favorite musical of all time.
He saw them all clearly now. Each of them, in one way or another, were the characters. Not just the actors—but the spirit of the story. The rebellion. The heartbreak. The belief that something better was out there.
And maybe they weren't all performers. Maybe some of them were stagehands, creatives, behind-the-scenes. Like STEPHANIE ADLER, the assistant director, whose steely reserve masked her fierce compassion.
Or COCO JONES, the costume designer who wasn't even in the department but somehow belonged to it more than anyone.
Or JOSH VELAZQUEZ, the sharp-tongued audio tech who saw every flaw before it happened.
Or ALARIO-EDELVALOIS—the perfectionist choreographer who turned control into choreography and self-criticism into movement.
They were all part of the same tapestry. And Alex had made one big mistake:
He never truly got to see them on stage. Not properly. Always too busy. Always caught up.
But now—now, he wouldn't let that happen again.
Because they deserved more than what they'd been given. More than half-hearted funding and tired costumes. More than applause in an empty room.
They deserved a stage worthy of them.
And so Alex came up with an idea.
An idea that didn't just reignite their passion.
It lit his own.
He would give them one last chance to shine.
✴︎ Note From Savannah.
Now way, Savannah did you write this randomly during your shift when nobody was coming in—
Why hello my lovelies! The long-awaited prologue has finally arrived. It's boring—I know—but I wanted to establish all the characters before we officially dive in.
Thank you all so much for showing your support for Perfect Places! I have so many ideas for this story and I can't wait to get right down to it!
However, to do that, I ask that you please, please, please finish your opinions. They are very important and I desperately need them to write out interactions between the characters. There is still time between now and the next chapter but please get them done as soon as you can!
That's all I have for now. Thank you a whole bunch for reading and I will definitely see you all in the next chapter of Perfect Places!
