Chapter 9: Confidence is a decision

It had been two weeks since the incident with Veronica and Julie.

Two weeks since the most humiliating day of my entire life. I promised myself it wouldn’t happen again. I wouldn’t let it.

Two weeks since I realised Klaus wasn’t just nice to me — he cared. And that scared me more than Julie sabotaging the show on opening night.

Things were a bit… different now.

Veronica was suspended from the play. The committee was still deciding between letting go of a good actress because she offended her mates or giving her a warning and letting her back in.

It was between morals and logic.

I honestly couldn’t care less. I was a changed person now, and I was sure she couldn’t lay a finger on me ever again.

Klaus had started staying after school with me.

Lessons.

It wasn’t planned. Neither was it discussed.

It happened on a random Monday morning. I didn’t see Klaus the entire day. I just received a text from him.

“Performing Arts Hall after school. Don’t be late.”

And yeah… I showed up.

Of course, I didn’t tell Maya.

After the incident, Maya was convinced Klaus was a jerk and a coward because he didn’t help at all.

“I mean, if he knew he wouldn’t lift as much as a single finger to defend you, then why did he watch? Did he enjoy seeing you being humiliated?” she said angrily.

No matter how much I tried to convince her that it wasn’t like that, she just wouldn’t have it — so I let her think what she wanted to.

I knew nothing would change her mind, even if I told her he said he cared.

I went to the school theatre — the Performing Arts Hall, like Klaus called it — and just as I expected, he was already there.

Standing center stage. Hands in his pockets. Watching the empty seats like they were an audience.

“You’re late,” he said without looking at me.

“It’s been like thirty seconds.”

“So you’re thirty seconds late.”

I rolled my eyes and dropped my bag near the front row.

“So what are we doing today?” I asked.

He finally looked at me.

“Confidence training.”

I blinked. “I thought we were practicing lines.”

“We are. But your problem isn’t memorization.”

Oh

.

“And what exactly is my problem?” I crossed my arms.

“You enter a room like you’re apologizing for breathing.”

Excuse me?

“I do not.”

He raised a brow.

“Watch.”

He stepped off the stage and walked toward the entrance of the theatre.

“Leave. Then come back in.”

I stared at him.

“You’re joking.”

“Do I look like I joke?”

No. And it was unfortunately annoying.

I grabbed my bag dramatically and walked out.

Ten seconds later, I pushed the door open and stepped back inside.

I walked in normally. I think.

Klaus watched me the entire time.

When I reached the stage, he shook his head.

“What?” I snapped.

“Your shoulders dropped the second you walked in.”

“They did not.”

“They did.”

I frowned.

“You looked at the floor. You adjusted your hoodie. You avoided eye contact with imaginary people.”

Heat crept up my neck.

“I wasn’t avoiding—”

“You were.”

I kept quiet.

He stepped closer.

“Again.”

I groaned but turned around and walked back out.

This time, when I entered, I kept my chin up.

It felt unnatural. Forced. Like I was pretending to be someone else.

When I reached him, he circled me slowly like I was being inspected.

“Better,” he said.

“That sounded painful.”

“It was.”

I swatted his arm lightly.

He ignored it.

“Confidence,” he said, “isn’t about size. Or looks. Or how loud you are.”

I stilled.

“It’s about decision.”

My eyes lifted to his.

“You decide how people see you,” he continued. “If you walk in like you don’t belong somewhere, they’ll believe you.”

The theatre was quiet.

“And if I don’t belong?” I asked softly.

He held my gaze.

“Then make them uncomfortable for thinking you don’t.”

Something about the way he said it made my chest tighten.

“Now,” he said, “posture.”

He moved behind me.

“Stand straight.”

“I am standing straight.”

“No. You’re hiding.”

His fingers lightly tapped between my shoulder blades.

“Lift.”

I inhaled and straightened.

“There,” he said quietly. “That’s you.”

For the first time in forever, standing on that stage didn’t feel like punishment.

It felt like possibility.

“Again,” he instructed. “Walk across the stage like you own it.”\\

I hesitated.

Then I walked.

Slowly at first.

Then steadier.

When I reached the other side, he nodded once.

“Good.”

That single word did something to me.

It wasn’t pity. It wasn’t sympathy.

It was earned.

As I grabbed my script from the floor, he added casually,

“We’ll do this every day.”

My heart skipped.

“Every day?”

“You want to be good?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Then show up.”