Trolls: Finding You Again

In Sync

The auditorium smelled of polish and stage lights, warm and familiar, as Branch stepped in for Tuesday's rehearsal. He paused at the doorway, letting his eyes sweep the space. The cast was already moving—stretching, adjusting props, or practicing lines in small clusters.

Poppy was at center stage, balancing a stack of cue cards, humming softly to herself. She glanced up and caught his eye, and for a heartbeat, they exchanged a smile that carried weeks of unspoken understanding.

"Hey Poppy," Branch said as he approached, dropping his bag by the wings.

"Hey," she replied. "Ready for another thrilling day of pretending to know what we're doing?"

Branch smirked. "As always."

Mrs. Horne clapped her hands sharply. "Today, I want energy, focus, and attention to timing. No slacking, no spacing out—especially not you two." She tilted her head at Poppy and Branch. "You've been clicking, yes, but let's see if it lasts under pressure."

Branch felt a small jolt—was this pressure or excitement? Maybe both. He moved toward the center with Poppy, their steps in sync without thinking.

During the first sequence, Branch caught himself actually enjoying the choreography. Their movements weren't perfect, but the rhythm between them felt natural. When Poppy lightly bumped his shoulder during a turn, he didn't pull back; instead, he adjusted mid-step, matching her pace.

"Nice recovery," she whispered with a teasing grin.

"Thanks," he muttered, blinking at her. "I've been practicing my ninja skills."

"You mean your falling-over-and-pretending-it's-dance skills?" she countered, nudging him lightly.

He laughed, a real, free laugh that drew a few glances from the other cast members. The moment was small, inconsequential even, but it reminded him why the last few weeks had felt lighter. They weren't just surviving rehearsals—they were inhabiting the scenes together.

The rest of the afternoon moved quickly, filled with repeated sequences, a few clumsy missteps, and bursts of laughter. Poppy and Branch fell into a rhythm that didn't feel forced; their eyes met at just the right moments, and subtle smiles made the exchanges feel alive.

As Mrs. Horne called a short break, Poppy sat beside Branch on the stage steps. "You're getting better," she said quietly. "Not just with lines... everything. You're... present."

Branch felt a tug in his chest. "Thanks. That... means a lot."

She leaned back slightly, looking out over the empty seats. "We're going to make it through this week, you know. Just... don't overthink it. That's my advice."

"I'll try," he said, though his mind was already replaying their movements, their shared moments, and the ease of being around her.

________________________________________________

By Wednesday, the week of opening night was in full swing. The pressure was tangible; even the air seemed charged with anticipation. Branch entered the auditorium later than usual, having stayed home to review his lines and choreography one more time.

Inside, Poppy was already there, stretching near the wings. She waved without breaking her focus on the floor, and Branch felt a familiar warmth as he approached.

"Hey," he said softly.

"Hi Branch," she returned.  Ready to see how much we can mess this up today?"

"Depends on whether you're going to rescue me from every misstep," he teased.

She smiled, and for a moment, it was like all the nerves of opening week evaporated. They moved to the center of the stage together, slipping into character as if the last few weeks had been a warm-up for this exact moment.

Mrs. Horne clapped her hands. "Okay, everyone! Today is about endurance—let's run it multiple times without losing energy. Branch, Poppy, I expect you two to keep your chemistry alive even under fatigue. Show me the spark, the connection, the responsiveness."

Branch's chest tightened slightly. He glanced at Poppy. She nodded, a small, knowing gesture that steadied him.

The first run of the scene was messy in parts, but Poppy's presence grounded him. She guided, teased, and adjusted without a word, letting him react rather than overthink. When he stumbled over a line, she caught it with a subtle expression, prompting him to recover without missing a beat.

During a quieter sequence, Branch noticed his own nerves settling in a way he hadn't felt since the dance. He caught Poppy's eye and allowed himself a small, genuine grin. She raised an eyebrow in return, as if to say I see you, and he felt the tension melt slightly.

"Your timing's off," Poppy whispered at one point, just enough for him to hear, "but I like how you try to make it your own."

"Thanks," he murmured, cheeks warming. "Means a lot... coming from you."

She smirked. "Careful. That sounds like a compliment. I'm not responsible for what that might lead to."

Branch laughed quietly, shaking his head. "Don't tempt me."

By the third run, fatigue was setting in, but so was something else—a rhythm, a balance, a give-and-take that made every scene feel more alive. Poppy and Branch moved together with less thought, more instinct. Their eyes connected at just the right beats, and shared smiles punctuated lines with a weight of familiarity.

When Ms. Mrs. Horne finally called a break, she looked at them pointedly. "Better today. You're alive on stage, not just going through motions. Keep that pace, that connection. You're going to make this opening night special."

Poppy turned to Branch, brushing a strand of hair from her face. "You're really... getting it. And I'm not just saying that because you finally stopped falling over."

"Hey!" he protested, though he couldn't stop the small laugh that slipped out.

"I'm serious," she said, eyes glinting. "You're... easier to work with than ever. And... I mean, this week's going to be crazy, but at least we're in sync, right?"

Branch felt a quiet surge of relief and something else—hope. "Yeah. In sync," he agreed, letting the words settle.

As they gathered their things to leave, the camaraderie lingered. No confessions were made. No declarations. Just two people moving in the same rhythm, learning to rely on one another in a way that didn't require words.

The walk home was quiet but comfortable. Branch found himself replaying the day's moments in his head—Poppy's teasing, the shared glances, the laughter. He wasn't sure where it would lead, but he knew this week of rehearsals was shaping them into something stronger, something real.

By the time he reached his room, he felt the familiar pull toward his notebook. The words came slowly at first, a reflection of their shared scenes and small victories:

We stumble, we recover,
Each glance a whispered promise,
Hands brush, timing shifts,
And somehow it all begins to make sense.

Branch paused, then added another line:

The week presses forward, relentless and bright,
But together we find footing,
Step by step, line by line,
Closer than we were yesterday.

The ink wasn't perfect, the phrasing clunky, but it captured something vital: progress, connection, and the quiet hope that opening night might be the culmination of everything they'd been building together.

He closed the notebook, letting the silence of the room stretch around him. The week was far from over, and the challenges of the play loomed ahead. But as he traced the fidget cube in his hand, he realized something important: he wasn't facing them alone.