When Harmonies fade

Sally and I met when we were 12, in middle school. From the moment we clicked, it was like finding the perfect harmony in a song—natural and effortless. We became inseparable, unable to pick our outfits for school without calling each other to discuss, our closets spilling with brightly colored skirts and sweaters that we treated like pieces of a shared wardrobe. Our shared love for music bound us even tighter, and we both joined choir as soon as we had the chance. More often than not, we were paired for duets—her steady, velvety alto grounding my bright, soaring soprano. Summers were spent sprawled on her bedroom floor, notebooks and snack wrappers scattered around us as we wrote songs and dreamed of the day we’d make it big on Broadway.  

The summer before our freshman year of high school, we heard that the theater camp was announcing its new musical. Without hesitation, we signed up, thrilled at the chance to spend three months together and audition for a leading role. When we found out the production was “Into the Woods,” we couldn’t contain our excitement. We both knew we had to audition for the role of Cinderella.  

That is, until we saw him.  

Alex.  

Tall, gorgeous, and a junior in high school. His presence and confidence seemed to command the room before he even spoke. He was a seasoned theater camp veteran, the golden boy of the stage.

Sally and I never openly discussed our thoughts on Alex, but we didn’t have to. From the moment he walked into the room, we both noticed—the way his confidence lit up every corner, the way his laugh carried over the hum of the crowd. Sally, always the bolder one, decided to introduce herself and dragged me along.  

“We’ve got to meet him,” she said, her eyes sparkling with determination. “Getting in good with the golden boy can only help our audition.”  

I reluctantly followed, trying to play it cool while she worked her charm. Alex was polite, even friendly, but something about him felt untouchable. He carried an air of arrogance, but I could see Sally was smitten.  I wasn’t immune to his charms; his presence had a way of dissolving my shyness, replacing it with a quiet confidence just by being near him.

As auditions crept closer, the excitement turned into a slow, gnawing anxiety. Sally and I rehearsed tirelessly, but we both knew the stakes. It didn’t take a genius to figure out Alex would be cast as the Prince—the perfect fit opposite Cinderella. When callbacks were announced, our names were side by side for the lead role.  

That moment changed everything. For the first time, I didn’t see Sally as my teammate, my duet partner. She was my rival. We both wanted the role. And even if we didn’t say it out loud, we both wanted Alex.  

The callback was intense. Sally and I were paired to sing the same duet with Alex. She went first, her voice flawless, dripping with emotion and vulnerability. I couldn’t look away—it was like watching her pour her soul into every note.  

When it was my turn, I took a deep breath and focused on Alex. I sang with everything I had, fixing my gaze on him and imagining us truly falling in love, not just as our characters but as ourselves.  

After the callback, the silence between Sally and me was deafening. She avoided me, and when I tried to compliment her performance, her forced smile was like a knife to the heart. That night, I went home and cried, wondering if I had crossed a line, if I had ruined our friendship for something as fleeting as a role.  

The next morning, the cast list went up.  

Sally’s name was at the top: *Cinderella.* My name was next to Alex’s, listed as the Baker’s Wife.  

Rehearsals were a slow, painful unraveling of our friendship. Sally and I spoke less and less, our duets strained and silent. Meanwhile, Alex seemed to take an interest in me, seeking me out during breaks and making small talk. I was polite but distant—his attention felt like ash in my hands compared to the weight of what I was losing with Sally.  

She noticed all of my interactions with Alex. Her cold demeanor sharpened with every exchange she overheard, though she said nothing.  I let myself bask in his attention, as if losing the role had been worth it because I’d “won” the guy. His interest was thrilling, but the excitement felt hollow—I had no one to share the joy of a new boy crush. In the process, I’d lost my best friend. 

One of the final days of dress rehearsal, I found her sitting alone in the wings, staring at her script. The light from the stage cast shadows across her face, softening the hard edges that had grown between us.  

“Hey,” I said, forcing a smile. “Break a leg out there.”  

She turned, startled, then smiled back. “You too.”  

That night, something shifted. Our duet felt effortless, our voices blending like they had in the beginning, before all the tension and unspoken words. After rehearsal, we laughed together in the green room, cracking jokes as we packed up.  

As we waited outside the theater for our rides, we saw him. Alex, out of view of the main doors but not out of sight, holding hands with one of the backstage crew. Sally and I froze, exchanging shocked glances, and then—laughter. Deep, uncontrollable laughter.  

Nothing needed to be said. We both understood in that moment how ridiculous we had been.  

As we waited for our rides, we caught up on the weeks we’d missed—sharing stories, apologizing without having to say the words outright.  

Sally and I stayed close through high school and into my twenties, until life pulled us in different directions. But when I look back on that summer, I think of everything it taught me: that friendships, especially with women, are precious and worth protecting. And that I’d never let something so trivial come between them again.