The clock on the wall ticked closer to midnight. Amara slouched deeper into the couch, her legs stretched out, eyes half-closed as she watched Elara obsess over her script for what felt like the thousandth time. The room was dim, the only light coming from the soft, warm glow of the overhead lamp. Marisol had long since abandoned them, her patience obviously shorter than Amara's when it came to Elara's tireless training.
Elara was pacing again, muttering lines under her breath with the intensity of someone who clearly wasn't planning to sleep until she had memorized every word, every pause, every breath. Amara rubbed her temples. It was too late for this, and she had already sat through several hours of Elara's practice. At this rate, they wouldn't leave the studio until dawn.
"Elara," Amara began, her voice thick with exhaustion, "you really need to get some rest. You can't keep doing this all night."
