She holds the script; he is forced to improvise.
Act one is a chance meeting, inconsequential words that turn into a low, continuous hum. She stays in her spot as he tries different paths to reach her. The lights become brighter with every word, the hum louder, until he makes his final journey to her side. Squinting against the spotlight, he hands her a gift. She walks away into dim silence.
When act two begins, a river flows between them, with wires nested below. Emails bounce back and forth, souls bared in snatched minutes on breaks and after hours. They form a chain stretching back weeks, then months; it will drag them to the oldest pub in the city, and towards the lights of an indifferent Angel. He holds her hand, and she lets him, as the night remains still around them.
The closing act. She dithers between a life lost and an opportunity to rebuild it in artifice. He seems like a way out of something, and he is, if only for the time she is close enough to catch the scent on his clothes. The hallway stairs becomes a purgatory of platitudes, the valley between staying and leaving. Following her script, she prickles with guilt, trying not to look at him. He exits stage left.
As she opens her mouth, the curtain falls, blanketing her in silence. There is one more line to say, but the performance is over.