Clap If You Can See Me
All the world's a stage
Prologue -
The theatre had no name.
No marquee.
There is no rusted lettering curling above the doors.
The stage was said to have grown like moss, silently, across time, clinging to the bones of a life not yet lived.
The performers here didn't arrive, but emerged from under the trapdoor, maybe, or maybe from the soft dust curled in the curtain's hem.
But the seats were always occupied.
An audience always watched with quiet reverence.
Not a cheer.
Not a boo.
Just a long, exhaling silence of expectation.
In the centre stood someone not born for the role of the performer but stitched into it by the unnoticed hands that adjust collars before photographs,
by the eyes that linger half a second longer.
Some say the stage is made of wood.
This one felt more like glass.
You could see through it, but never fall through.
You could tap, scream, ache beneath it and remain perfectly visible.
There were no lines, only cues.
No acts, only endurance.
The lights never dimmed.
The curtain never fell.
And so the performer stood under a spotlight in the quiet trembling of someone who doesn't ever recall sitting down,
who doesn't know what their voice sounds like off-stage,
who no longer knows whether the crowd ever came for them,
or for the outline they make when standing very, very still.
Act I: Crowned Too Early
The stage is bare,
except for a child-sized desk
and a chair too small for the performer now.
The performer enters in silence.
They wear a glittery, flimsy, slightly torn paper crown.
They sit.
They pick up a pencil and begin to write,
but there's no paper.
They pretend, anyway.
They nod and smile to no one.
From above, soft golden light falls
like the morning sun
or a spotlight that thinks it's kind.
It's not.
It's a weight.
A voice echoes, not words, just the tone of praise.
A child's lullaby begins to play.
It's warped.
It skips at the same word every time:
"proud… proud… proud…"
Each time it plays,
the performer straightens their back a little more
and smiles a little harder.
A gold star appears on the desk.
Then another.
And another.
They never stick the stars anywhere.
They stack them - neatly, nervously,
like something fragile might break if they stop.
Their hands begin to shake.
They drop the pencil.
The pencil makes no sound when it hits the floor.
The performer leans to pick it up
but freezes.
Half-bent.
Unsure.
As if failure to complete the gesture is already a kind of failure.
They sit up again.
They smile again.
"proud… proud… proud…"
But now, it's slower.
It's stretched and distorted like a record played one too many times.
The lights start to flicker.
The crown falls off.
The performer doesn't notice.
They keep writing on the invisible page.
The lights go out.
Act II: The Waltz
The lights snap on.
The desk is gone.
In its place: a treadmill that doesn't look like one in the first place, as it is composed of certificates, calendar pages, alarm clocks, and to-do lists taped together like some fever dream of motion.
The performer is already walking,
already mid-stride.
Like they never stopped.
They wear a blazer over pyjamas.
One shoe on, one off.
A medal hangs from their neck,
made of chocolate -
melting,
staining their collar.
A metronome ticks.
Fast.
Then faster.
Each tick triggers a spotlight from above.
Each spotlight reveals a new item:
A violin
A dumbbell
A book in a foreign language
A laptop flashing unread emails
They pick up one.
Then another.
Then another.
They try to juggle them.
They drop them.
They try again.
The treadmill moves faster.
They're running now.
They mouth something,
but there's no sound.
They mime laughter.
Mime confidence.
Above them, a massive banner unfurls from the rafters:
"YOU’RE DOING AMAZING!!!"
But the letters glitch.
They shift:
YOU’RE DOING AMAZING
→ YOU’RE DOING
→ YOU’RE
→ DO
The performer collapses.
Briefly.
Then crawls.
Fixes their blazer.
Keeps walking.
The metronome shatters.
The lights flicker.
The treadmill keeps moving.
Act III: Offering to an Empty Chair
The treadmill is gone.
The stage is dim. Still.
The performer walks in slowly.
They carry a bouquet.
Plastic.
Lifeless.
They hold it like a trophy.
A dining chair stands stage left.
Another stands stage right.
They sit in one
and look at the other
like someone is there.
They laugh gently.
It turns into a cough.
"I brought something for you."
They reach for the bouquet
and offer it to the air.
It falls.
No one takes it.
The performer flinches.
They adjust their blazer.
Smooth their hair.
Smile harder.
They offer a trick.
A joke.
A mimicry of connection.
No one laughs.
No one claps.
The performer looks confused.
They mouth:
"Is this not enough?"
They look down.
Take off the blazer.
Take off the smile.
They hug the silence.
A slow spotlight rises.
From behind the audience,
as if someone might be walking toward them.
But no one does.
Act IV: Applause from the Dead
The stage is scattered with fragments of past sets:
The tiny desk
A shard of the treadmill belt
A plastic petal
One chair
Only one now.
The other is gone.
The performer enters in silence,
dressed in everything
and nothing —
thawed medals,
paper crowns,
a torn name tag,
socks that don’t match,
one side of their face painted like a clown,
the other left bare.
It looks theatrical,
but feels tired.
The performer bows.
They rise.
They bow again.
And again.
There is no applause.
They look up, waiting.
Nothing.
They laugh softly.
It sounds like a balloon deflating.
They step forward and say:
"Thank you for coming."
No one responds.
They clear their throat.
"This was… That was… Actually, can I try again?"
They shuffle backwards.
Reset.
Walk in again.
This time with more energy:
"THANK YOU FOR COMING!!"
They laugh.
Then bow again.
Still no applause.
They start clapping for themselves.
Softly.
Testing how loud they’re allowed to be.
Then faster.
Faster.
"Do you get it now?"
"This is the part where you clap."
"This is where I take my bow and exit."
"That’s how it’s supposed to work, right?"
They bow again.
Again.
Stay bowed longer this time,
trembling slightly.
Then rise.
But there’s no end.
The lights don’t fade.
They check their watch.
There is no watch.
They check again.
Still no watch.
They look up toward the lighting booth, shielding their eyes.
"Did you miss your cue!!?"
"Did I?!"
No answer.
They walk to the curtain.
Try to pull it closed.
It resists.
They tug again.
It doesn’t budge.
They lean against it like a wall.
Slide down to the floor.
For the first time,
they cry.
Humanly.
They whisper:
"I was ready to leave."
The lights stay on.
They trail off:
"Was this not enough?"
The lights buzz softly.
The performer looks directly at the audience
for the first time.
"Are you even real?"
The lights cut out.
Somewhere,
a single chair creaks.
I bowed
and bowed
until my spine
bent into an apology.