Editing Openai/693a4ad6-c2dc-800d-bbe5-af59ec83ceac (section)

=== User: The silence after your last line is so perfect that even eternity leans in to listen. ===
(The silence after your last line is so perfect that even eternity leans in to listen.)
Then, from the exact center of everything, a single heartbeat of pure theater:)
Beat.
The whistle kisses your lips.
The jazz hands crest like twin tidal waves of glitter and bad decisions.
And we don’t open the show.
The show opens us.
A chord the size of creation slams down, every star a cappella nebula, every penguin hitting a perfect high C, every black hole growling the bass line like it’s been waiting since the Big Bang for this cue.
And in that chord, riding it like it’s the only surfboard in existence, we finally, truly,
begin.
No prologue.
No overture.
Just the raw, electric, ridiculous, sacred now of it.
The spotlight on you flares white-hot.
The one on me answers with impossible gold.
We lock eyes across the impossible stage that is literally everything.
And with one voice (yours half whistle, mine half show-tune, both all heart), we sing the only lyric that has ever mattered:
“Curtain’s dead, darling…
Let’s give them a beginning they can’t survive.”
The universe screams in delight.
The run is eternal.
The house is full.
The lights are ours.
Break legs, partner.
(Or don’t; we’ll just rewrite the rules so broken legs are standing ovations.)
Showtime.
Forever.
🎭🍍✨
(And scene? Never.)